


A Handbook on Half Holy Hoodwinking

by cassieoh



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Decoy Bride (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Never Met, Aziraphale and Crowley did not meet in the garden, Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Demon Summoning, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse, Raphael is a friend and a bro but also a whole idiot, and worked to stop the end of the world, aroace raphael, but they each still fell in love with earth, genre aware Warlock Dowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23580775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh
Summary: “Why the fuck,” Raphael says, voice as smooth as the linseed thick in the air, “do any of you think you have the right to hurt my betrothed?”There’s a pause in which Aziraphale can distantly see the confusion passing between Gabriel and the others, but he can’t really process much past ‘betrothed’. It feels as if the entire universe has ground to a halt around them.***Aziraphale is to be executed post-Apocalypse, the only way his friend Raphael can think to stop it is to claim they're to be married (can't kill an Archangel's husband afterall). They arrange to have the wedding as soon as possible on a little island with great Holy power. Meanwhile, Crowley (having escaped his own post-apocalyptic execution) is hiding out from Hell in one of the only places where there's enough Holy energy to disguise him.They might not have meet in Eden, but really what's 6000 years between adversaries?(quite a lot, as it turns out)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Raphael (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 184
Kudos: 177
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Yooo, important thing- Raphael is NOT Crowley in this fic, but he is an important character. I don’t want anyone to be confused when he shows up. Also, this is an AU in which Aziraphale and Crowley never met, the details of that will be discussed in the fic
> 
> also, a huge thank you to sosobriquet for the rapidfire beta <3<3<3

Over the course of his time on Earth, Aziraphale has often wondered if angels can develop ulcers. He's sure that if it is possible that he would have been the first to do so- though Raphael assures him that _that_ dubious honor actually would have fallen to Michael, eons ago. She has always been, according to his friend, wound rather more tightly than is strictly healthy. Aziraphale has never been inclined to question Raphael on that point, as he has no desire to ever interact with any other Archangels.

Which means, of course, that he finds himself obliged to suffer both Gabriel and Sandalphon's company quite frequently.

'Company.' Ha. His face does not change, he’s rather more practiced than to allow that, but something at the core of him twists. Company is meant to be, well, companionable. He is quite sure that it does not refer to standing by, bound and gagged, while your 'company' discuss how best to murder you.

He really does hope the ache in his gut isn't an ulcer.

“I still think Falling is the best punishment,” Sandalphon is saying, his wide mouth stretching into a rictus. “If he loves the Earth and all its _pleasures_ so much, let him drown in them.”

It occurs to Aziraphale that he should probably be more frightened by all this, but really all he can think of is the mug of warm milk he’d just finished preparing when he’d been grabbed. He cannot help but wonder if it would make his stomach feel better.

“We don’t have the votes to make him Fall,” Michael says, her voice a smooth roll of disdain. She’s never cared for Sandalphon, a fact that Aziraphale takes great comfort in at the moment. Sandalphon makes a noise of discontent, a snide, dismissive little thing that sends another spike of discomfort through Aziraphale’s gut.

If he were to get an ulcer, would it be contained to his corporation alone? Or would his Heavenly Form be affected as well? How would that manifest in a body without sharp edges or stomach acid?

“Surely, Raphael isn’t so blinded by his time on Earth that he’d refuse to agree,” Sandalphon continues, putting voice to the needling worry at the back of Aziraphale’s mind, as always.

He knows Sandalphon was wrong, that Raphael _does_ love Earth too much to do anything that might hurt it, including taking Aziraphale away. After all, the Archangel _had_ helped Aziraphale to do the very thing he was currently on trial for.

Besides all that, they are friends, have been for nearly four millennia. Aziraphale may be a being composed mainly of nebulous worries and concrete anxieties and more than a little peckishness, but he is sure of that at the very least. Raphael is his friend.

Only.

Well, Raphael hadn’t come when Aziraphale called for him.

He always comes- no, that isn’t right. It's more that he is always already there. Aziraphale has never _needed_ to call.

But he hadn’t been there, and he hadn’t come, and Aziraphale is worried.

He hopes the little smirk at the corner of Gabriel’s lips doesn’t mean anything ominous.

“No,” Gabriel finally says. He claps one hand down on Aziraphale’s shoulder, gripping him tightly enough for the nerves of his newly acquired corporation to protest. “Aziraphale here directly disobeyed every order given to him and flouted the Plan. He doesn’t deserve the prestige of a Fall.”

All his worries about Raphael and ulcers and warm milk curl up and slither away, leaving behind only a white wall of terror. He’s going to die.

He’s going to die and he can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t.

He’s never done anything of note, never really helped anyone that Raphael or some other angel couldn’t have helped, never created anything beautiful or protected anything that mattered.

He’s.... he’s going to die and nothing at all will change about the Universe.

The thought brings with it some measure of peace. He thinks that he won't mind dying if it means that the world would be allowed to continue on. Of course, he would have liked to enjoy one last meal with Raphael at that lovely little cafe in Mayfair, but-

Gabriel snaps and Aziraphale’s thoughts scatter. There is a hurried set of footsteps from across the huge space. A rancid scent reaches Aziraphale just before the demon crosses in front of him. Aziraphale watches as the slim being putters about, waving their hands to and fro and making that terrible smell spread further. Then, just as Aziraphale is beginning to wonder about his ulcer again, he hears a door open. In front of him, Gabriel and the demon freeze, their eyes wide[1].

Gabriel stares at whoever came through the door for what feels like an eternity before he nods once and picks up the tail of the thought he’d dropped.

“Do it,” he snaps to the demon who giggles and turns the empty mason jar in their hand upside-down, spilling a sudden font of Hellfire into Heaven for the first time since the War.

Aziraphale cannot help flinching away from the heat. Having taken an early wound, he’d not been involved in the main fray during the war; but sometimes he can still hear the screams of the first angels in the whole of Creation to die, their souls charred to nothing more than celestial cinder.

“Well hurry up,” Gabriel cajoles and Aziraphale realizes his bonds have vanished.

He stands. There’s no reason at all to put this off, no reason to delay.

His foot rises from the floor, swings forward, and-

“I’d really rather you sit back down,” Raphael says, and Aziraphale spins on his still planted heel to face him.

There’s a funny coincidence that has always driven Raphael a bit spare; the human Raphael (nee Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino) was a painter of some talent and note by the standards of his time. But, he was not the first Raphael to take up a brush. No. Raphael the Archangel etched the first drawing into a little cave on the edge of Eden, drew the first bundle of camel’s hair dipped in wetted clay across rough stone outside of the collection of huts that would one day become Ur. He’d always had clever, long fingers that itched to record and create and depict and he’d taken to oils as soon as they’d been invented.

He’s always been a bit bitter that a human used his name to become so well-known.

Now, standing before the other Archangels and Aziraphale and a nameless demon and a font of Hellfire, he’s the artist incandescent. The air reeks of linseed oil and turpentine and when Raphael steps forward the ground beneath his feet cracks and peels away like old paints.

His footprints are cinnabar bright and toxic, a match for the matted length of his hair. His eyes sparkle with pinpoint highlights of rage. He glances between the fire and Aziraphale and nods slightly, a decision shaped in clay and fired to permanence.

For the first time in his long, long life Aziraphale is afraid of his best friend.

“Sit down, Aziraphale,” Raphael breathes, “I’ve call to speak with my siblings.”

Aziraphale sits.

“Why the _fuck_ ,” Raphael says, voice as smooth as the linseed thick in the air, “do any of you think you have the right to hurt my betrothed?”

There’s a pause in which Aziraphale can distantly see the confusion passing between Gabriel and the others, but he can’t really process much past ‘betrothed’. It feels as if the entire universe has ground to a halt around them.

Aziraphale feels movement behind him and then Raphael’s hand is on the junction of his neck and shoulder, the very tip of his calloused index finger dipping into his shirt collar and brushing his skin. He shudders and sees Gabriel notice the movement. His face flames a shade of scarlet to match Raphael’s hair. They’re not like that, they’ve never been like that. He wants to correct all this because it feels wrong, but when he opens his mouth to speak, Raphael’s finger twitches against his neck, presses close to his racing pulse.

Once, nearly three thousand years ago now, Aziraphale had been very nearly discorporated (through no fault of his own, the building had been unstable long before he arrived). He’d already been in trouble with Gabriel and was paralyzed by the choices before him; he could either heal himself and risk censure for frivolous Miracle usage, or he could discorporate and be written up for wasting resources. Rather than choose, he’d dithered for so long that he’d nearly bled out. He’d woken, confused and in pain, to Raphael pressing one warm hand to his throat, muttering about structural engineering not being invented soon enough and quotas and all manner of things Aziraphale had known he wasn’t meant to hear. He’d opened his eyes and Raphael had soothed away all his worries with a smile and gentle words, “Rest, my friend. I’ll not let you come to harm. You can trust me.”

Now, with the heat of Aziraphale's execution pyre scalding both their faces, Raphael is once more asking for his trust.

Aziraphale closes his mouth.

He feels Raphael’s sigh of relief and can’t help the smile that crosses his face, despite the dire circumstances.

“What, and pardon my Akkadian here, the fuck do you mean by that?” Gabriel finally says.

Raphael laughs. “I _mean_ that we’re to be Bonded at the next equinox.”

“Aziraphale, buddy, is this true?” Gabriel sounds friendly and also as if he’s just been made to swallow camembert that has gone off slightly.

Aziraphale glances up to Raphael who smiles down at him, eyes-half lidded and trying very hard to tell Aziraphale _something_. He hopes he’s reading the correct message there, hopes he’s not about to spoil whatever clever plan Raphael has sketched out.

“Y-yes,” he stutters, and then when Raphael’s hand tightens against the side of his throat he says it again, more firmly, “Yes. That’s the truth. I do apologize for keeping it from you for so long Gabriel.”

Gabriel is quiet, exchanging heavy looks with Sandalphon and Uriel. Finally, he sighs and looks to Raphael.

“How long has this been going on?” he asks sharply, a needle picking away at Aziraphale’s already fragile nerves. Then, before either of them can respond, “Wait, no, _why_ in all of Creation would you choose Aziraphale?” He laughs. “You’re an Archangel, brother, you could choose any angel in the Garrison.”

Aziraphale hadn’t been involved in the weaving of stars, that was all rather above his paygrade, but just like every other angel he remembers the sound of them being spun into existence. It wasn’t music, wasn’t words; it was monotone and unending and it shook the very core of each member of the Host. He’d not heard it for millennia but right now he feels it rising up around him, a hollow buzzing sound that blots out all others. He can barely hear Raphael, only knows how tense his friend is from long experience. Gabriel’s mouth moves and Raphael’s hand is on Aziraphale’s neck and the buzzing gets louder even as his vision narrows and narrows until all that is left is the column of fire and the ache in his ears. He quite loses track of the proceedings after that point.

* * *

When Aziraphale comes back to himself, he is sitting in the middle of his bookshop, surrounded by teetering piles of first editions and shaking quite badly. He casts his mind back, trying to recall how he’d got from Heaven to here, but finds only vague impressions of white light and condescending laughter and questions being answered in the voice he trusts above all others[2].

Finally, he is able to find a clear memory. Raphael, holding Aziraphale’s face in his hands and smiling softly at him. His eyes filled with shining tears, little diamonds of Holy Water welling up. Aziraphale wonders if there are any others Holy enough to manifest such glory in their human corporations. He certainly is not.

“Aziraphale,” Raphael had said, “I’m so sorry. Please, you must forgive me. I’d have done anything else if I had thought of it.”

Aziraphale hadn’t been able to find the words to respond. He knows Raphael wouldn’t have bonded to him if there were another choice, why would he want to? Gabriel had been cruel but not wrong.

Raphael’s arched brows had pulled together into a frown. “I’ll explain everything later. Just,” he’d paused and sighed, “Just please stay here? I can’t-- No, I won’t make you. But, I’d appreciate--”

“Of course,” Aziraphale recalled murmuring, the words pulled from his lungs almost against his will. He’d never denied Raphael anything before, he wasn’t about to start now.

And now here he is, surrounded by books and shaking violently. He reaches out and takes the top book from the nearest pile. There’s so much to sort through, he needs far more time than he has left. No, no, don’t think on that. Sort the books.

Catullus. He frowns. He’d never liked Catullus. He places the book carefully atop the farthest pile. His system is arcane, at best, he’ll need to organize it all better if he is to be killed. Raphael will never find anything he is looking for in this mess, and Aziraphale would hate for him to go to any trouble--

Perhaps he should call Adam? The AntiChrist had turned out to be a rather pleasant boy; at worst only slightly inclined towards mischief. Perhaps if Aziraphale were to call, to explain the situation, he might help. He turns the thought over, examines it, and dismisses it. He’s already in enough trouble, he’s loath to bring it down upon anyone else.

Eventually, he blinks and finds himself in the kitchen making tea. Just as he pours the first cup, the little bell over the bookshop door jingles merrily.

“We are quite assuredly closed!” He calls, proud when his voice doesn’t tremble.

He can hear footsteps approaching and turns to tell the humans that he doesn’t have any more SparkNotes or tasks for dummies or whatever tosh they’re looking for now. But, before he can speak, he sees Raphael standing in the doorway looking utterly wretched.

The Archangel always did manage to show up just in time for tea, he thinks half-hysterically.

Aziraphale pours a second cup and drops in three sugars, sliding it across the counter.

“So,” Aziraphale manages after a fortifying sip, “When am I to die?”

“Never.” It crackles in the air like lightning, harsh and final in the way only an Archangel's words can be.

Aziraphale swallows. “It’s unkind,” he whispers into his teacup, “To keep the truth from me. I am not a fledgling who must be defended against unpleasant things.”

“No, damn it all, that’s not what I’m trying to do here.” Raphael sets his cup down and runs his long fingers through his hair, leaving it in tangled disarray. “Aziraphale, I spoke with the other Archangels, explained the situation. It’s all going to be okay. They agree with me.”

Hope surges through Aziraphale, sending his heart racing to new heights. “So, we need not be Bonded? They understand why we subverted the Great Plan?”

Raphael does not respond for a long minute and Aziraphale understands what he has misunderstood.

“Oh,” he says. “I see.”

“Aziraphale, if there was any other way, please, you know I woul-”

He waves one hand, catches sight of it shaking from the corner of his eye and moves it back to his cup. “No, no. I understand.” He attempts a smile, though it feels as false as he is sure it looks.

“I promise that it doesn’t have to change anything.” Raphael approaches him. “I know a Heavenmouth close-by, our human friends can be there. I want you to be happy. I know it’s not ideal, but it was all I could think of and I couldn’t stand the thought of you dying for doing the right thing.” He breaks off, mouth twisting bitterly.

Aziraphale nods. He understands, he really does. His own feelings about Heaven are complicated and heavy in his gut.

“Aziraphale,” Raphael sounds heartbroken and Aziraphale can’t stand it.

“Really, who else would I be bonding to anyway, hmm? You’re my only friend in Heaven or on Earth.”

Aziraphale takes another sip of tea, draining the last of his cup. He sets it on the countertop with a quiet clink of china against tile.

“It’s just,” he pauses and gathers his courage before continuing, “Could you- Maybe- Only I’d always thought if I bonded with someone, they’d ask me. Or I’d ask them. Or-”

Raphael gently takes hold of Aziraphale’s hands.

“Aziraphale,” he says and there are 6000 years of history pasted across his face in a bright collage. “Will you do me the honor of b-Binding yourself to me this Midsummer?”

“Yes.”

His voice doesn’t shake this time.

* * *

There is something sharp poking his cheek. Sleepily, Crowley tries to swipe at it with his left hand, only to discover that he’s been laying on that hand for somebody-knows how long and it’s gone completely to sleep. He ends up not only knocking the sharp thing away but smacking himself in the face as well. He lets out a startled hiss and hears a quiet snicker.

“Warlock.”

“Hiya, Crowley.”

If Warlock is in his bedroom, that means the sharp thing poking his face was, in fact, a long stick the boy had found shortly after they moved into the cottage.

“What did I tell you about that stick?”

The sound of shuffling socks against a concrete floor.

“Not to poke you in the face with it?”

Crowley rubs at his eyes beneath his sunglasses, his fingers prickling as blood once more flows through them. “And what were you just doing?”

“Poking you in the face with it.”

“Great.” Crowley sits up and settles his sunglasses back into place. He hesitates for only the barest moment before he turns on the narrow bed and lets his stockinged feet touch the floor. Immediately they prickle, the feeling not unlike that of the blood rushing through formerly compressed vessels in his fingers. Warlock is lingering by the doorway, the stick clutched tightly in his small hands. His hair is a riot and Crowley doesn’t try to stop the fond grin that quirks his lips.

“Come here, you heathen,” he says, gesturing towards the empty spot at his side. Warlock drops the stick just outside the door and scrambles to join him, tucking against his side as soon as he’s seated. There’s an instant when Crowley’s instincts boil up, a coiled snake that flares its hood, presses him to attack, to rip, to maim. He viciously suppresses them.

This is Warlock. The reason he’s still on this earth, shit, the reason he’s still _extant_.

He’ll die long before he lets anyone, even himself, hurt his boy.

“What are we doing today?” Warlock asks.

“Hmm,” Crowley pretends to think. “I thought I’d go see about planting some more of that moss.”

“Nooo,” Warlock cries dramatically, throwing himself back into the extravagant duvet. “Crowley, you know that’s not how moss works! And! It’s boring. Please don’t make me do that _again._ ”

Crowley laughs. “Fine, twerp,” he says. “I’m going to do some work around here. You go bother the old fuddy-duddies.” He’s been discovering that some of the verbal tics he picked up as Nanny Ashtoreth are harder to shake than he thought they would be. _Fuddy-duddies._ Satan, it’s a good thing there aren’t any of his old coworkers around to hear him say something like that. He’d never have recovered.

Warlock looks at him suspiciously. “Really?” he asks. “You mean it?”

Another instinct is fighting for dominance in Crowley. “Yes,” he bites out, “I mean it.” Then, because he’s only so strong, “Take your mobile. I want a text every hour.”

Warlock whoops and throws himself from the bed, his eyes are bright and his movements overwhelmingly energetic. _Mammals._

“Thank you!” He cries, darting from the room.

“Eat something!” Crowley calls after him. “Not toast. Something with nutritional value!”

“I ate the leftover Chinese before I poked the sleeping beast!”

Warlock’s voice is already faint. Crowley can picture exactly what he’s doing; gathering up the items he’d scattered about when he arrived at the cottage the previous evening[3] and shoving them into the canvas backpack he’d become completely enamored with on their last trip to the big shop on the mainland. In his hands will be his sketchbook and the pile of pens he’s rarely without these days. When Warlock is sure he’s got everything, he’ll clasp the bag carefully and sling it around. Then, he’ll slip his boots on and vanish out onto the island to range over the hills, wreaking chaos wherever he goes and taking the sort of careful notes only an 11-and-a-half-year-old can take about the things they see. He says he’s writing a guidebook “to the Portals of Heaven and Hell”, which Crowley has promised him will never see the light of day.

In fact, Crowley cants his head to the left, listening intently, the door slams exactly on time and Warlock is gone. When he reaches the gate at the end of the scrub garden he yells a farewell that Crowley doesn’t bother to respond to-- he can’t be arsed to yell at anything but his plants these days.

He’s tired; a bone-deep, soul-consuming, creeping exhaustion clinging to him like sulfur to the back of a hellhound.

Crowley allows himself a few minutes of self-pity before he stands on prickling feet and casts about for his shoes. The soles don’t _solve_ his little Holiness problem, but they help. Then, he puts on something approaching unremarkable human fashion for a person his age and current presentation and leaves the cottage for the day.

He steps into the sunshine and blinks back the sudden tears that spring forth. Even the blessed light here is, well, blessed. Narrowing his eyes as much as he’s able, he picks up the ratty satchel of gardening supplies he’s slowly accumulated over the last six months and sets off for the beach[4]

The equinox is in three days and if he’s to have Warlock’s surprise ready he’s got a lot of work to do.

* * *

Footnotes:

1In order to understand their alarm some important context is required; there are no doors in Heaven. There are, of course Gates, but doors imply a sense of privacy and angels have no need of all that.[return to text]

2It’s a terribly blasphemous thought, but not one he’s willing to go back on. He _does_ trust Raphael above even Her. Raphael was there for him when the world was ending on Her Word.[return to text]

3He’s forever strewing things about; Crowley would be proud of the boy’s penchant for chaos if he weren’t trying to avoid using Miracles and thus obligating himself to do any cleaning by hand.[return to text]

4He will be stopped by no fewer than three of the island’s more geriatric residents, each with an inane request for help around their home. He will complain and bluster and snipe at them, but he will also help find a lost puppy, trim back a rather overzealous creeping ivy, and exchange the latest gossip with Mrs. McCleary. He reasons that each of these is Proper Demonic Activity because the puppy will grow up to be a menace, the creeping ivy will make Mrs. Down the Lane terrifically jealous, and Mrs. McCleary is an unrepentant gossip and speaking with her is just good clean fun. He will not be judged for that, thank _you._ [return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Crowley is this one :( Aziraphale's people are arriving and Warlock meets one of them though! 
> 
> Edit: in chapter 1 I said solstice when I meant equinox, oops! It's changed, but the important bit is that this is all happening in the lead up the first spring equinox after the attempted apocalypse (~6 months and some change later)

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Anathema tilts her head and peers at the map she’d found crammed between Dick Turpin’s narrow seats. “No wait, before you answer that, was this map even printed in this century?” 

“Hey, I’ll have you know,” Newt starts, letting go of the wheel to reach over and snatch at the map, “That this was bought in oh-five with my entire allowance.” 

Anathema leans as far away as she can (it is not very far) and holds the map to her chest. “Oh, my go- Agnes! You were such a little nerd! You were all of eight years old and you spent your allowance on a gas station map? Of Scotland? The place where you did not live?” 

Newt’s entire face and neck blaze scarlet. 

“Yes,” he mumbles, “I mean, yes I was eight. I was not a dork or a nerd or any of that, though.” 

Anathema smiles, taps the worn edge of the map against her lower lip, careful not to leave a lipstick stain behind. 

“Hmm, maybe not,” she says and watches as his shoulders tense, clearly anticipating exactly what that tone means. “Can you tell me _why_ exactly you wanted a map of Scotland?” 

He very, very carefully keeps his eyes on the road, mumbling under his breath as they begin a slow, arcing loop around one of the rolling hills that dot the island. 

“What was that?” She knows her voice is saccharine sweet, and that it's enough to incite terror in him, but she loves the way his lips twitch when they spar like this, trying to hold back his instinctive grin. 

“I said I was going to try and memorize the postal codes and the atlas mum had didn’t list them.” 

Anathema laughs, throwing her head back and indulging in a proper, witchy cackle. 

“Yuck it up, Anathema,” he grumbles, “As if what you were doing at eight was so much better.” 

Ahead of them, at the very center of a shallow valley, there is a castle. It’s mostly a ruin, but Anathema is just American enough to delight in a castle no matter its state. It takes her breath away, the idea of something so old and grand just left to founder and rot. She likes that sort of very human history in the same way that she likes the opposite; things which are little and humble and kept perfect for as long as they can be (like the book carefully tucked away in the boot of the car). 

“I was memorizing prophecies,” she says after a moment, realizing that she’d never responded. “So, a fair sight cooler than you I’d say.” She reaches over and jabs one finger into his ribs, “I read prophecy 4020 for the first time when I was eight, actually.”

His light blush flared, spreading to cover every inch of his face, but they’ve arrived at the little gravel area in front of the empty moat, so Anathema only leans over and places a gentle peck on his cheek. 

“Don’t worry, Newt,” she says, “I happen to like dorks.” “Oh, right, well. That’s good,” he stammers. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, but the ruined castle doors are opening and Aziraphale and Raphael are exiting, their hands clasped. 

“Oh no,” Anathema whispers. 

“What?” Newt has just pulled himself out of the car-adjacent vehicle and is leaning on the hood, peering between her and their friends with a confused little quirk of his brow. They’ve not actually known each other for very long, but she’s learning to greatly appreciate his intuition. It’s nice to be anticipated sometimes. 

“They’re both miserable,” she tells him. “I knew they weren’t actually-” She cuts herself off and glances upward, wary of being overheard by the All-Knowing. 

“Is that their auras?” he asks. “Because they’re both smiling.” They are, that's the really upsetting bit, Anathema thinks. Aziraphale’s face is covered by a broad, toothy smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and Raphael’s, though smaller, is no less obvious. 

“Yes.” Their auras are-- they’re awful. She doesn’t think an angel’s aura was ever meant to look quite so... pallid. Raphael’s writhes with guilt, coiling around itself in a never-ending twist of golden scales, little tendrils of jagged misery jabbing outward, snagging against scales and leaving thin red lines. Aziraphale’s is slower, smaller, calmer; he’s drawn himself in until he almost doesn’t exist. Trying not to be noticed, to hide the sorrow that suffuses every inch of his being. She thinks of the bright and joyful angels she’d seen at the end of last summer, of the way Aziraphale’s flames at reflected off Raphael’s scales and how together they’d been more than the sum of their parts, of how that unity had given her the strength she needed to get through that terrible day. 

It hurts her to see them this way. 

“Come on,” she tells Newt. 

“Anathema!” Aziraphale cries out as they approach, “Newton! Oh, it is so wonderful that you could make it. Apologies for the short notice, we were rather taken, er, what I mean is-”

“It’s all a bit more sudden than we would have liked,” Raphael cuts in. Anathema spots his hand tightening around Aziraphale’s and when she unfocuses her eyes she can see how his coils long to loop protectively around the tiny flame at his side. 

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” she says, “We’d not have missed it for anything.” She means it and she hopes they can hear the sincerity in her voice. Newt nods along with her. 

“She’s right,” he says, “We’ve just been loafing around Tadfield, it’s nice to get out, see a bit of the world.” 

Aziraphale’s smile settles into something a bit more real looking. 

“Well, still, thank you. You must tell me everything about Tadfield. How is Adam? We’ve not spoken since Easter, but he was going on about Dog learning some new trick? Something about walking on his hind legs?” 

“Oh he mastered that a month or so ago, they’re working on some contraption with ropes and sled runners now,” she tells him. She steps forward and wraps her arm around the one Aziraphale isn’t currently using to hold Raphael’s hand, pulling him along with her. “Come on,” she says, “They can get our luggage, tell me everything about this place.” 

Aziraphale glances back over his shoulder once, looking to Raphael. Whatever he sees there must reassure him, because he relaxes into her hold and allows her to draw him across the little bridge and through the broken doors. As soon as they’re inside she pauses and tugs him closer. 

“Can they hear us?” she whispers. 

He shakes his head. “This whole island is, well, I suppose you’d call it a Heavenly Font.” Anathema nods. She’d not had a word for it, but she can feel the energy of Something far bigger and older than she can even begin to comprehend pressing against every inch of her being. “Our words are too small to show up against something like that.” He looks down and purses his lips. “I do so wish it hadn’t come to this, I feel just dreadful.” He glances back, out the doors to where Raphael and Newt are standing at the boot of the car, chatting away and clearly having forgotten entirely that they are meant to be unloading. 

“How did it happen?” She asks. “I wasn’t really under the impression that you two were, or are, together?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, no, Raphael doesn’t feel love in that way. He never has,” he said, “He loves me as his friend, and I him. He’s my-,” he pauses and swallows, “He’s my oldest and dearest friend, the only one I’ve ever had really.”

Anathema grips his arm more tightly. She means to offer comfort, but he seems to take it as reproach because he laughs a little and says, “Present company excluded of course. It’s just, well it’s a bit different when the friend is immortal.” 

Anathema nods. She gets it. She’d probably not grow too attached to ants either if she could understand what they were saying. 

“And the marriage?” 

Because that’s why they’re here. She and Newt had stumbled downstairs one morning last week to find a beautifully engraved vellum envelope on their butcher block, glowing faintly and smelling of old books and linseed. When Anathema finished casting a light ward around the room to deter any malicious magic (sue her, she was a bit paranoid post-Apocalypse) they opened it to discover an invitation to a surprise wedding of the two angels they’d help stop said-Apocalypse. 

“Ah yes, that.” He disengages from her grasp, slipping away to begin pacing, wringing his hands. “Well, you see. We weren’t supposed to, hmm, well, stop the Apocalypse. That was my idea. I didn’t want to give it all up, you humans are so wonderful and it seemed unfair to just end it because, well, just because!” 

He looks at her and his eyes are huge and pleading and she’s suddenly sure that she’d like to punch _whoever had taught him to look that way._

“I can't say I’m upset about that,” she tells him, making sure to catch his eye so he knows she’s kidding. He smiles back, shoulders relaxing marginally. 

“Right, apologies.” He takes a deep breath, “But, well, Heaven wasn’t terribly pleased about it all.” 

“Because they wanted the end of the world?” 

He nods and Anathema can tell he doesn’t really want to talk about the rest of it so she gives him a nod of her own and changes the topic, “Right. So a wedding, I get telling me to bring a dress, but why do I have my witch’s kit?” 

“Ah, well,” and now he looks a bit queasy, “you see, angelic marriage is quite unlike human marriage.” 

Anathema nods, she’d assumed as much, given that angels had been around a good deal longer than humans (at least by her understanding of the celestial timeline, Aziraphale had not been as forthcoming on the subject as she would have liked). She looks around the ruined castle, first with her regular sight and then with her Sight. As soon as she blinks she’s overwhelmed by the flood of energy that fills the place, all flowing through the room, filling the high arches and spaces and being shaped by the flying rafters before coalescing into something concentrated and pure and exiting out the other side, tightly wound. Her entire being yearns to fling itself from her body and follow that energy, sure that if she can just take one more step, one more breath- 

“It would kill you,” Aziraphale says, his hand gentle on her arm. “That’s concentrated Divine energy and while I look forward to greeting you in Heaven, I’d much rather we enjoy our days here first, yes?” 

Anathema feels only halfway present, but she manages something that she hopes sounds like assent. 

“Good.” Aziraphale’s eyes are so tired. “Because I’m afraid I need you to help me focus that energy. This is a natural nexus, but it’s angled incorrectly. If our w-wedding is to go off without a hitch then we need to shift it to join with the others on the island.” 

Anathema swallows. She wants to help, really she does, but just glancing at the energy has left her feeling hollowed out, she’s not sure she can move any close to it without giving in to the desperate desire to fling herself over the edge. Aziraphale seems to sense this, because he smiles again, his face folding in the friendly expression he’d worn when they met. 

Funny, he’d seemed so much _more_ back then. 

“No need to worry, my dear,” he tells her, “I’ll do the heavy lifting, as it were. I can use the tools of your trade easily enough. I was rather hoping you might be my proofreader? Keep me on the up and up.” 

Tension bleeds away from Anathema. That she can do. 

“Of course,” she says, squaring her shoulders, “The first thing we need is more light, can you cast it or do we need to figure out a fire?” 

His smile looks slightly more real and Anathema renews the vow she made six months ago. Aziraphale might be an ancient being with power beyond anything she or Agnes could ever hope to understand, but dammit, he’s _her_ ancient being and she’ll do anything she can to help him. 

Aziraphale snaps and Anathema watches as some of the energy that fills the air around them peels away and spirals into a tight sphere. 

“Let there be light,” Aziraphale says and there is. 

* * *

“Is all this really necessary?” 

Newt rolls his eyes and then freezes, hoping _the literal archangel fucking Raphael_ hadn’t noticed. He’s still getting used to the circles he apparently runs in now including angels and Archangels and witches and semi-retired Ladies of the Night. His mother is rather pleased by it all, claiming she’s never seen him so happy[1]. She’s already planning to invite the whole lot of them over for a late-summer dinner party and had refused to take no for an answer when Newt had tried to explain that perhaps, mum, the literal divine beings would prefer to not spend their time crammed into a little flat with dated furniture and burned out electrical sockets. 

“Unclench there, Newton,” Raphael mutters. “Not going to smite you for being human.” 

“Thank you for that.” Newt hopes that sounds as sincere as he means it to, he really does appreciate remaining unsmitten (aside from his obvious and inevitable infatuation with Anathema). 

“Don’t mention it.” Raphael hefts another of the suitcases out of the boot. “It was a sincere question though.” He points at the piles of suitcases that surround them. 

Newt chuckled. “I think maybe one and a half of these are actually clothes and toiletries. The rest is all Anathema’s witch stuff. You know, chalk, chicken feet, and the like.” 

Raphael grimaces. “Lovely.” 

“Oh no, it was, it was a joke,” Newt fumbles, cursing himself. His jokes never landed, why in the world did he think that Raphael would appreciate one? 

“Hmm,” Raphael says. He slings the suitcase strap over his shoulder and picks up another in each hand. “Come along, I prepared one of the tower rooms for the two of you. It should be well out of the way of the Workings your witch will need to complete.” 

“She’s her own witch,” Newt says, almost on reflex and winces again. He really can’t help himself, can he? He’s going to be a pillar of salt before this week is up, he just knows it. 

“Of course I am,” Anathema says, poking her head around the broken door, “Are those the books?” 

Newt held up the leather valise in his left hand. “Yep,” he nods. When she picks her way across the rubble to his side and takes the case he takes the opportunity to press a quick kiss to her cheek, grinning when a blazing blush covers her cheeks. 

“Yes, very nice,” she says as she retreats. Newt can hear Aziraphale inside, his voice gently teasing. 

“Well, I suppose we can get these up to the room and come back for the rest.” 

“I’m afraid I have ano-, ah, somewhere else to be,” Raphael says, quickly. He drops the bags at the end of the bridge and, before Newt can ask what’s the matter, turns on his heel and beats a rapid retreat back across the bridge. 

“Leave him be,” Aziraphale says from the doorway, “He’s having a hard time with all this.” His face is sad, drawn tight in a way Newt recognizes from August. 

Newt can’t do anything to help that. Angels and Archangels and Heaven is all so far above his paygrade. The best he can do is help Anathema and hope that Aziraphale figures out something to make it all better. 

He did it before, surely he’ll find a way now. 

Newt hasn’t ever had much faith in God, or gone to church, or any of that; but he’s finding that he has faith in Anathema and in Aziraphale, and he’s positive they’ll fix it all. 

* * *

Raphael knows a great many things, he knows how to make the richest and best pigments that can be found and knows how to capture the delicate interplay of light and shadow across the most subtle expressions a human face can make. He knows how to spin matter into existence and how to ignite the remaining Holiness at the core of a demon to burn them from within. 

He knows how to read his friend and he knows that Aziraphale wants nothing to do with any of this. 

He wonders if it would have been better to take all the blame himself, if they still would have wanted to kill Aziraphale. 

He’d stood there, corporation weighted down by bags filled with human magic and watched Aziraphale peer through the doorway, his expressive brows quirked together, first in question and then in longing as Newt kissed Anathema. 

Raphael had been able to lie to himself before, he’d been able to pretend that this was all worth it because any emotional strife was worth it if Aziraphael was alive to endure it. But, now he wonders. 

Aziraphale has always been a bit more human than Raphael. He doesn’t know if it’s something inherent in who they are or if it’s simply a difference between a Principality and an Archangel. It doesn’t matter, really. What matters is that Raphael has been lying to himself, and he can’t anymore. 

Aziraphale clearly wants something like what Anathema and Newt have. 

Something that Raphael can never give him. 

No, worse than that. 

He wants something that Raphael not only cannot give him, but is actively ensuring he’ll never be able to get from anyone else. 

He’s never wished before that he desired physical intimacy, but he wishes it now. He wants more than anything for Aziraphale to be both happy and alive and he’s suddenly aware that he’s engineered a scenario in which only one of those things can ever again be true. 

He flees the castle, striding across the rolling hills on long legs. He barely has the presence of mind to avoid the rabbit burrows he can see dotting the landscape. The island might be completely suffused with divinity, but he’d really rather not suffer the indignity of a rabbit-inflicted wound on top of everything else. 

The wind whipping across his face smells of salt and rain. He thinks, briefly, of manifesting one pair of wings to shield himself before spotting a squat building at the top of the next rise. 

By the time he enters the space the rain is coming down in sheets and he is soaked to the bone. He spares a thought to banish the water from his clothing and hair, running slender fingers through the curls to detangle them as he looks around the little room. It appears to be an abandoned toilet. He touches the rusted pipework along one wall with a grimace, he knows humans need these sort of spaces but really, letting it fall into such disre-

A low moaning sound echoes through the pipes. 

Raphael stills. He doesn’t think Heaven would attack him here, Heavenmouths are de facto safe places. Moreover, it was never _him_ in danger. 

The sound comes again, rattling through the space, layering in and around on itself; filling his head with thoughts of ghasts and ghouls, the terrible stories that humans had told around fires for centuries. Perhaps this is not of Heaven at all, perhaps this is some poor lost human soul snagged on the energy of the island and desperately reaching out for help. 

“Hello?” he asks. “Spirit? I mean you no harm, dear thing.” He casts his gaze about for any hint of where the spirit might be hiding. Aziraphale has always been better at this sort of thing. Raphael is better at capturing moments on paper, but people trust Aziraphale. 

Low moans precede a rattle and then a... Giggle? Raphael pauses. He’d never heard a lost soul giggle before. 

“Who’s there?” he asks. “Show yourself.” 

He’s very proud of himself for not reacting outwardly when the child appears at his elbow. 

“Hiya,” the human says. 

Raphael takes a rapid step back, reasserting his preferred distance. “Hello there,” he returns, cautiously. 

“Don’t know you,” the child says. He takes a step closer, back into Raphael’s personal space. “I know everyone on the island.” His accent is not like the locals, falling oddly close to what Raphael remembers of radio broadcasts in the earlier part of the last century; a halfway measure between Ohio's cornfed American and London's public school English. “Who’re you?” 

“Raphael,” Raphael says. He does not say Raphael who is set over the diseases of Men and who is bound by Her to guard Her Creations and by himself to Guard one of those Creations in particular. That’s a bit of a mouthful and really the only purpose is so that people don’t say-

“Oh, like the painter, that’s cool.” That. So people don’t say that. He should have strangled Raphael the Human and Stealer of Names in his sleep before he’d even thought about picking up a brush. 

“Do you paint, too?” The boy asks, “I only ask because my Crowley is awful at it and I’d really like to learn. I’m writing a book and I think pictures would make it so much better.” 

Here he pauses and scoots a bit closer to Raphael, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a small notebook. 

“That’s why I’m in here,” he explains, “I was drawing that rock out there - you passed it on your way in - when it started raining and I didn’t want to try and run all the way home.” 

Raphael’s confusion has waned a bit. He might resent the comparison to the Italian, but he’s always loved artists and the child’s enthusiasm is catching. 

“Were you making that noise?” he asks. 

The boy grins, unrepentant, “Yep, it’s funny when tourists are here. They get so scared and then they tell their friends and more people come here.”

“I’m not a tourist,” Raphael says, though he’s not sure that’s strictly true. Perhaps he is a tourist. Does being forced to visit a place to marry an angel who does not love you in order to prevent said angel’s murder at the hands of your sibling-coworkers count as tourism? 

“Whatever,” the boy says. “I’m Warlock. I live here.” 

“Your parents let you run around alone? You seem very young to be unattended.” Raphael isn’t entirely sure how old the boy is, but he’s certainly not yet a teenager, he still has the reedy look of one enduring rapid growth spurts and the round face of a child. 

A shadow crosses the boy’s face. His grip on his notebook tightens. “No,” he bites out, “I live with my Crowley.” 

“Your Crowley?” Raphael has no idea what that means. He’d thought he was well informed on English familial vocabulary, perhaps this is some new youth slang he’s not yet learned-

“He’s a demon, kidnapped me and everything,” Warlock explains. Raphael laughs. It’s ridiculous. No demon could survive a Heavenmouth, to say nothing of the fact that no demon would allow a child to survive their encounter, much less raise one. 

“A demon, hm?” he says, hoping for more of an explanation. Even the strongest human believers think of demons as possessing other humans not living their own lives. He can’t sense anything approaching that level of belief in Warlock. 

Warlock nods wordlessly, his face is still serious. “Yep,” he says. “Mine.” 

Raphael isn’t sure how to respond to that. He nods slowly and tries to look reassuring and kind. “That’s nice,” he says, “I’m sure he’s a very nice demon.” 

That pulls a tiny smile from Warlock. “He likes to pretend he’s not, but I’ve seen him putting the milk out for the hedgehogs, so I know it’s all a lie.” He studies Raphael for a moment and the Archangel is struck by the _age_ in the child’s eyes. This is not a pampered, spoiled human. He’s enduring something terrible and the way the water from his damp hair frames his face only highlights the determined set of his jaw. 

“Mr. Raphael,” he says slowly, “would you like to see my secret hideout?”

“Secret?” 

Warlock nods, “No one but me knows about it, not even Crowley.” 

There’s something in his voice, some desperation. If he really has been held captive by a demon, perhaps this secret place is somewhere safe? Aziraphale and Anathema will be busy for hours yet and Raphael is loath to leave a child in danger if there’s any chance at all he can help. 

“I’d love to, Warlock,” he says with his best trust-me smile. He blinks and the sounds of rain against the roof fade away. “Now?” 

“Great,” Warlock turns to the door, “It’s down by the beach, come on.” 

The walk is not a long one, as the island is very small after all, and Raphael had already crossed a great deal of it in his bid to escape the guilt that surrounds the castle. When they reach the cliffs, Warlock leads him over to a narrow path that cuts down through the stone, a loose scree of rocks that the human navigates with ease. 

“It’s just through here,” Warlock calls back to him, “Sorry about the rocks, there was a bad storm last week and I haven’t had the chance to clean them up. Crowley had me helping around town.” 

Raphael’s head fills with all the terrible possibilities that might fall under a demon’s idea of ‘help around town’. He shudders. He’ll need to work quickly to rescue this poor child and defeat the demon before the other Archangels arrive tomorrow afternoon. 

“Come on!” Warlock says, eagerly darting ahead. His trainers slip against the loose rocks and he slides confidently down the last half of the slope. Raphael follows as quickly as he’s able. He can see the shore at the end of the narrow crevice now, the waves being whipped up by the winds that seem ever-present here. When he looks back to Warlock, he’s startled to see that the boy has disappeared entirely. 

“Warlock?” He calls. 

“In here!”

Raphael follows the echoing voice and, when he takes another step, marvels at the way the folds of the rock seem to shift to reveal a tiny opening. There’s nothing magical about it, just a trick of light and shadow and contour lines. It’s wonderful. 

He ducks into the cave and immediately feels the constricting shiver of a ward snapping into place around him. 

“What-”

“I don’t know who you are,” Warlock stands before him, a crucifix gripped in one hand and a spray bottle of clear liquid in the other. Raphael tries to step towards him, one hand held out in reassurance, but he runs into a solid patch of air that jolts his corporation back into the center of the circle he can now see glowing faintly on the floor. He looks up at Warlock, suddenly wishing he’d not left Aziraphale behind. 

Warlock’s voice shakes and then steadies, “But I will _not_ let you hurt Crowley.” 

Footnotes: 

1Which is true, he’s rarely been happy in his life, always frustrated with the things he wants being just outside his reach. He’s only just learned that that might be because of something his ancestor did and, if he’s being honest, he’s a bit miffed about the whole thing.[return to text]


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, sorry about that delay folks! This is the weakest point of the movie and working around it in a decent way took some brain twisting. I hope it works! 
> 
> Also! They get to meet!! I'm sure it's all going to go perfectly.

Anathema hums a quiet little song to herself as she draws the chalk across the broad flagstones of the landing, enjoying the rough scrape and the smooth draw and the satisfaction that came from knowing she was doing the thing she was best at. When she reaches the end of the long arc, she pauses, leans down so her glasses nearly touch the floor, and studies its shape. Then, she uses the chalk to draw a short hash mark in parallel with the arc. That’s the thing the uninitiated always forget--that the world is always changing; draw a binding circle one day when the sun is shining and the clouds far away and its strong as hawthorn, draw it the next week when the rain falls in sheets and it’s naught but brittle sea glass. You had to have a feel for it. Witches weren’t meant to be steel, they were greenstick willow and their workings had to bend with them. 

She stands and wipes the chalk dust from her hands onto her skirt. 

“Aziraphale!” Loosing her braid, Anathema runs her fingers through her hair before twisting it up into a tight bun atop her head. 

She hears a clattering noise from up the winding stairwell and is careful to tuck her smile away where it cannot be seen before Newt tumbles around the corner, barely managing to juggle the pile of books and scrying instruments in his hands. He collides with the low wall that separates the landing from the rest of the entry and contrives to twist so that he’s leaning against it in a way that looks as if he intended to be there all along. 

She’s so gone on that stupid half-bashful, half-confident smile and the way it seems to quirk at all the same angles as his permanently mussed hair. 

“Hello, dear,” she says as if she’s seen nothing at all. He sets the pile of books on the half-wall. “Is Aziraphale following you?” 

He glances back up the stairs and shakes his head. “No, he was still working on the one around the door. Where’s Raphael?” 

A shiver of foresight trills through Anathema’s bones. She’s always gotten them but ever since she’d held Agnes’ prophecies in her hands as they came to pass, ever since she felt the shiver and recognized it as potentiality-settling-into-Knowing, she pays more attention. She focuses on the sensation, on the Knowing, and feels _empty, alone, dark and damp. Where had the kid gone?_ Then, the moment passes and she’s blinking away the faint shadows that always seem to trail behind her abilities. 

“Aziraphale?” She calls up the stairs. Newt isn’t offended by her ignoring his question, he’s learned to roll with things in the last few months, but she still takes his hand as she passes by and pulls him along behind her. Aziraphale doesn’t answer, so she shakes her head and begins the climb. 

At the top, they discover Aziraphale standing in the center of the tower, looking more than a little lost. The runes and binding sigils around him are clearly complete, Anathema can feel them focusing and directing the energy that flows across the island. Anathema spares a glance for the rest of the space. Aziraphale has clearly used some angelic ability or another to fill it with furnishings; there’s a four-poster bed with curtains in the very center of the space that Anathema is sure wasn’t here when she last looked in. The curtains are russet red and embroidered with what looks to be constellations. A series of small, spindly-legged tables are scattered around the room, each topped with pictures. She picks up the closest one and gasps, one hand going to her mouth. It’s Aziraphale, depicted in white and cream, his hair shining gold as he perches atop a high wall, surrounded by sand the same color as his skin. There’s another figure, too far off for their facial features to be visible, but Anathema thinks it's meant to be Raphael by the pinprick blaze of red atop their head. 

“Raphael painted it,” Aziraphale says, appearing at her elbow. His voice is very quiet. “The day we met. I’d just done a very stupid thing and was terrified he was there to punish me.” 

“Was he?” Newt asks from across the room where he is poking at a vase of asphodel and hyacinth, trying to help the drooping stems stand a bit straighter. 

Aziraphale’s hand clenches around the chalk he still holds. “No,” he said, with a wet sounding sniff, “He asked me if I’d tried any of the berries yet and if I’d like to join him for a light snack.” 

Anathema smiles, of course, they’d had a meal. She thinks she probably knows what the wall on which the tiny painted Aziraphale stands is, though the idea is one that she very deliberately does not look at. It’s one thing, to accept that one knows angels, it's another entirely to think about them being in the Garden of Eden. She looks from the little painting to Aziraphale and then back around the room. Tables covered in pictures that depict their history, furnishings in reds and golds when she knows Aziraphale has always preferred cool colors, white wine chilling on the sideboard instead of the red he favors. 

“Aziraphale,” she says. 

“Please don’t,” he begs her. “I have to do this. We have to do this. I just...” He pauses and swallows. “I just don't want him to regret any part of it.” He takes the painting from her, fingers brushing across the tiny red-headed angel. “He’s my best friend. I just want him to be happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

Anathema waits until he sets the painting back on the table to wrap Aziraphale in the tightest hug she can manage. 

“I know you said you don’t feel romantic things towards him,” she whispers into his neck, breathing in the strangely dusty smell that always clings to him, “but, I don’t think he could ever be unhappy spending time with you. I’ve never seen him smile more than when you’re talking.” 

His hands come up and he returns the hug, his face pressed to the side of her head. 

“Thank you, my dear.” 

After a long few minutes, Aziraphale releases her and steps back, straightening his waistcoat. 

“Raphael needs a bit more time, I’m sure,” his smile is tremulous, “But, would you two like to join me for dinner? There’s a lovely little pub in town I thought we could try.” 

Anathema shares a quick look with Newt who is nodding. 

“Of course,” she tells Aziraphale. She hooks her arm around his, drawing the piece of chalk from his fingers and tucking it away in the pocket of her skirt. “It’s probably a good thing Raphael took himself for a walk. It’s bad luck to see the groom leading up to the wedding anyway.” 

That stole a laugh from Aziraphale and Anathema decides to count it as a win. She’ll take any she could get right now. 

* * *

The tavern is on the other end of the island and by the time they arrive Aziraphale is feeling much better. The walk is bracing, there’s a constant wind that scours the surface of the island and he’s grateful for his coat. Halfway across the island, Anathema pauses to pull her hair into a tight braid, containing the wind tangled curls with a scowl. It makes him think of the displeased look on Raphael’s face when he’s obliged to fly. The Archangel hates pulling his hair back nearly as much as he hates appearing ruffled. 

When they finally arrive, more than a little disheveled but moods lifted by the walk and the quiet companionship, Aziraphale pauses to look out at the setting sun. The ocean is set ablaze by the low angle, brilliant reds and oranges lancing across the waves, catching in the spray and froth. He smiles. 

It was worth it, he thinks, all of this pain and heartache is worth it because the Earth is still here. He can hear the sounds of humans in the pub, laughing and yelling and singing along to what sounds like an especially out of tune guitar. They would have been worth it had he been killed in the font of Holy Fire and they are worth him giving up his chance to ever find love. 

He takes a deep breath, tastes the brine on the air, and goes into the pub.

When he finds Anathema and Newt they are seating in a little booth in the back corner, as far away from the group of raucous young men by the little raised platform attempting to out-do each other’s performance of what appeared to be a song about a terrifically depressed young woman[1]. 

“We already ordered drinks,” Newt tells him, passing over a battered menu. “They didn’t have regular wine, so we got you a cider.” 

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale perused the menu for a moment before deciding on a shepherd’s pie. When the waitress leaves he takes a sip of the cider (delightfully tart, with just a hint of cinnamon) and turns his attention to Anathema and Newt. “So, do tell me everything. How are you both? Newton, how’s that mother of yours? And Tadfield, are you still teaching Adam, Anathema?” He’s suddenly ravenous for news. He feels the last six months have passed in a snap and he’s missed everything in his worry over the subterfuge he and Raphael have devised. It’s inexcusable, the humans are their friends and they have such a short time together, he shouldn’t let immortal concerns take him away from their sides. 

His companions exchange a look and he sighs. 

“Please,” he says, “I know I have not acted especially happy about what’s happening.” Because he isn’t. “But, all will be well. Raphael is my closest companion, I can think of many worse fates than to be bound to his side. So, please, tell me what’s going on in your lives. I’ve been a terrible friend.” 

Anathema takes a sip of her drink (a mulled wine despite the season, she’d justified it by claiming a chill from the wind). “Yes, I’m still working with Adam. He’s very talented but not a fan of practicing, so we’re working on meditation right now.” 

Aziraphale nods. It is a good idea. Adam had meant well with all his actions during the Apocalypse, but he lacked the self-control he’d need to keep from impulsively changing Reality as he aged. One could not be manifesting entire continents in their sleep and expect no one to notice after all. 

“Once he’s comfortable with that, I think we’ll move on to rune work,” she goes on, “He’s powerful, even now that he’s locked most of it away, but he doesn’t know how to channel that power and when he gets upset it still comes out in unexpected ways. I think runes might be a way for him to bleed off some power without having to do a big Working.” She smiles, “That and his friends are wanting to join in on the lessons and I think they’ll like learning to carve.” 

“I have,” Newt said. He licks a bit of beer foam from his upper lip. “It’s not quite computers, but there’s a nice sort of logic to it all once you learn the language. Binding circles are like recursive loops, wards comment out the forbidden things and all that.” 

Aziraphale has exactly zero clue what that’s meant to mean, but he likes the light in Newt’s eyes so he smiles and nods and then does so again when the waitress passes by, asking if they’re alright. 

“That’s nice,” he says, “And your mother?” 

He listens as Newt tells him about Mrs. Pulcifer’s ongoing feud with Mrs-Upstairs over who was meant to take the bins out and who was meant to bring them in and smiles when the story devolves into a debate about if ‘bins’ was the correct word for them at all and then into a soliloquy about how silly it was that English wasn’t the same on both sides of the Atlantic and why did they have so many words for things anyway?

“Oh, I imagine William would have something to do with that,” he says, the humans paused in their bickering, turning to look at him with expectant expressions. 

“Please tell me you mean who I think you mean,” Anathema looked positively gleeful.

“He can’t, you _can’t_.” Newt whined, “I _know_ you’re an ancient immortal being with more power than I can ever comprehend and all that, but you _can’t_ have known him.” 

“And whyever not?” Aziraphale laughed. “Shakespeare was a lovely fellow, if a bit obsessed with his, erm, manhood.” 

Anathema snorts into her drink even as Newt groans. “It’s just so weird,” he complains, “How can you have known Shakespeare? The Shakespeare? You look like my uncle who knits thirteen hours a day[2].”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Newton,” Aziraphale sipped his cider as primly as he could before breaking into a wide grin at Newt’s sputtered apologies. “No, no, no worries my dear boy. You’re right after all, I like to look comfortable. And yes, I knew The Shakespeare. Raphael and I both did. He really was the most marvelous human....” 

* * *

_“You know, I’ve always preferred his poetry,” Raphael muttered, glaring balefully up at Mr. Burbidge. “Less of this faffing about and more Romance. I could paint masterpieces thinking about the sonnets.”_

_Aziraphale popped a grape in his mouth, struggling to hide a grin. Raphael was not subtle in his disregard for Mr. Burbidge, who had made the mistake of flirting with him on their first meeting and not quite understanding what Raphael meant when he said ‘no thank you, you’re a very pretty human, but I’m rather more interested in the color of your tunic.’_ [3]

_“Yes, dear, I know. Grape?” Raphael took three and ate one, balancing the other two between the tips of his fingers, idly manipulating them back and forth, working the stiffness from his hands. They still bothered him sometimes, despite his acquisition of a new corporation after the Inquisition ended._

_They were quiet for a moment, Aziraphale enjoying watching the rehearsal and Raphael slowly peeling the grapes and dropping the peels on the ground._

_“You know, I’ve been told to go to Ediburgh next week,” Aziraphale said after a moment, “I think I have to ride a horse.”_

_Raphael snickered, “Better you than me.”_

_“Yes, quite. But, it would be such a shame to miss this show. I don't know how long it will be on for, William seems to think no one is going to see it and you know how he gets when shows fail.”_

_Raphael rolled his eyes. “Has Gabriel got you watching your Miracles again?”_

_Aziraphale studied the grapes. “I was rather frivolous this last quarter. I know that. I’m endeavoring to be better.”_

_“Sod it, Aziraphale,” Raphael snapped. “No other angels are limited the way you are. I should take him by the wings and-” He made a rather violent gesture with the remaining grape, the sharp scent of fruit joined that of linseed and pigmented earth._

_It was sweet, how Raphael immediately rose to his defense. But, Aziraphale knew he wasn’t worth all that._

_“Nonsense,” he said, laying on hand on Raphael’s forearm, “I’ll just go to Edinburgh and take care of business as quickly as I might and hope that Hamlet is still on when I return.”_

_A shiver of energy passed through him and Aziraphale had to repress the urge to thank Raphael. The Archangel might be a kind heart with him, but it was best not to draw attention to the things he did in defiance of his siblings._

_So, instead he offered another grape and they went back to watching Mr. Burbidge._

_“You, know,” Raphael whispered after a few minutes, “I really do like his tunic.”_

* * *

When Newt blinks himself awake the next morning it is to Anathema’s face bare centimeters from his, her eyes wide and her mouth pursed in the sort of expectant look she sometimes got when she was waiting for him to answer a question. Sleepily, he searched for what he’s meant to be saying, but finds only; 

“I swear I won’t let Adam into the cupboard anymore?” 

The corner of her mouth quirks in a smile before falling back to a serious expression. Newt takes his glasses when she holds them out and scoots out from under her to lean against the headboard. 

“Raphael hasn’t turned back up,” she tells him. 

He feels a bit too bleary to know what he’s meant to do with that information. “He’s not under the covers,” she rolls her eyes, so he continues on with, “But, you knew that, of course.” 

“Funnily enough, I did.” Anathema reaches out and buries her fingers in the wild mop of his bedhead, scratching her nails across his scalp just behind his ear. She’s not always great at affection, usually just to the left of typical really, but he finds he enjoys the little ways she’s comfortable sharing how she feels. 

“Did you try to find him?” He waggles his fingers at her to indicate not-entirely-mundane means of searching for someone. 

She nods, twisting on the coverlet so she’s sitting rather than kneeling, her legs crossing beneath her and he’s struck anew with the realization of how much he loves her and how lucky he is that the world nearly ended. “Yeah, he’s not showing up with anything I try. I know it works for angels because I tried to find Aziraphale and he’s a damn floodlight.”

Newt frowns. He doesn’t like what it might mean that Raphael has vanished, today of all days. 

“Do you think one of the other angels, the ones who want to hurt them I mean, have er… done something?” 

Anathema shrugs, idly fiddling with a loose thread on her heavy skirt. 

“I don’t know. I hope not. But, really he’s never been the one in danger in all this. I’m worried for Aziraphale.” 

Newt is too, for all that they’ve only known him since August, Aziraphale is their friend. You don’t help someone prevent the Apocalypse and come out of it mere acquaintances, after all. He adjusts his glasses and comes to a decision. 

“I’ll go check the town, maybe there’s something there interfering with your searching and he’s just gone for a walk. You keep Aziraphale from fretting too badly. There’s still some time before the wedding, is there anything you can keep him busy with?”

“There’s always more warding we can do on the binding circles,” Anathema says with a nod, “This island is so strong already, it can’t hurt to make sure there’s limits placed on things so they don’t get overwhelmed by power.” 

They agree to the plan and, after Anathema chivvies him away from the kettle (“You can get tea _after_ you find the wayward Archangel and prevent his siblings from murdering our friend!”), Newt heads for the tiny town on the opposite end of the island. 

* * *

Crowley shoves his sunglasses up on top of his head, bitterly regretting not having pulled his hair back that morning as the wind kicked up and whipped a few strands directly into his left eye. Blessing viciously, he rubs the eye and readjusts the sunglasses, hoping they might act as a sort of containing headband. There’s a tourist lingering outside the pub, his baffled look matched only by the surge of adrenaline Crowley gets upon seeing him. 

He’s been trying very hard since they came to the island to not make mischief with the locals. His schemes have always seemed to be rather more ouroboros-esque than he would prefer and there’s Warlock to think about these days. But, well, tourists. They’re fair game. So, despite his foul mood and the hideously sunny smiles the Mrs. Downings up the lane both give him, he only continues on his biweekly pilgrimage to the only pub on this hell-forsaken rock. 

He discovered when he was still Nanny Ashtoreth that he actually possesses at least a smidgen of cooking talent. Moreover, there is something... nice (not that he’ll ever use _that_ word in particular to describe it) about quiet mornings with Warlock in the kitchen of their little cottage. The boy likes unseasoned soft-scrambled eggs in the middle of slightly soggy toast and Crowley is quite proud of him for enjoying such a genuinely upsetting meal. He doesn’t tend to eat in the mornings, but he enjoys an espresso while Warlock scarfs his food and goes on about the book he’s writing (it’s sickeningly cute really, another thought Crowley will never vocalize). It’s the exact sort of peaceful he’s never realized he was missing for the entirety of his 6023 years on Earth before this one. 

But, twice a week they skip breakfast, ostensibly because Warlock wants to go rambling earlier than normal, but in reality, because Crowley needs a few days a week to rest a bit longer and try to gather his energy. The Island wears on him more and more with each passing day. On those days, when he finally manages to drag himself from bed Crowley goes down to the pub to pick up whatever the special is and meets Warlock for an early lunch. 

Today, Warlock was gone long before Crowley woke, a fact he discovered due to the sticky note left on his forehead that read “gone to the beach, don’t want lunch. see you for dinner.” There had also been the ghost of something else written at the bottom and then hurriedly erased. Crowley could just make out an L and an O before he decided there was no point in reading further and he shoved the little note in his pocket[4]. Crowley respects the boy’s autonomy, but he knows there was nothing decent in the house for breakfast and doubt Warlock stopped by the bakery for anything. He’s not about to let the boy skip two meals. So, he’s going to go to the pub and then he’s going to the beach to annoy a human into eating because he’s a Big Scary Demon and that’s apparently what his life has become. 

But... Well, the tourist _is_ looking quite lost. It would be entirely too rude not to stop and welcome him. 

A grin curls the corners of Crowley’s mouth as the tourist pauses in his examination of a large paper map to scratch his nose. 

Warlock won’t mind if the lunch he doesn’t know is coming is a _bit_ late. 

With these thoughts in mind, Crowley approaches the door next to the lost tourist and gives him the sort of overly friendly smile that he knows makes everyone deeply uncomfortable, especially good solid, British men. The man blinks and opens his mouth to say something, but Crowley believes that the best mischief builds, so he breezes on past, opening the door and calling his order back to the kitchen. He chooses something light, knowing that Warlock often eats both portions when Crowley himself can’t stomach the idea of solid food. Moreover, the boy might swim later and Crowley would hate for him to get a stomach ache or cramp because he ate a bit too much at lunch. 

Then, task complete Crowley throws himself onto the cracked vinyl of the closest booth and spends a few minutes carefully carving Mrs. Down-the-Lane’s phone number into the chipped oak. She’s been making noises about how ‘dreadful it is that his petunias just can’t seem to keep up’ and, as much as he’d like to, he figures it’s not a great idea to call forth a horde of rats to devour _her_ oh-so-perfect petunias. The last time he’d done that Warlock had insisted on keeping three of the rats and Ashtoreth had been obliged to explain to Thaddeus and Harriet why rats were appropriate pets for five-year-olds[5].

He's just pulled out his phone to attempt the next level of Candy Crush[6] when he hears a quiet throat clear next to him. He doesn't look up from his phone, but he does raise one eyebrow, inviting the person to go on. They do not respond and so he swipes a green candy to the left, only to watch in horror as the stupid chocolate thing expands and begins to cover the areas of the board he’d already cleared and well, that’s just his lucky really. He quits the app. 

“What can I do for you, mate?” he says, calmly readjusting his sunglasses down from the top of his head to his eyes. It's dim in here but if he's going to have an actual conversation with an actual human being other than the barkeep (who is more than used to his oddities), then he should probably cover his eyes. Being called a witch was so tedious and he really just can't be bothered today. 

The person who spoke turns out to be the awkward tourist from outside and when Crowley looks up at him he returns the same broad, overly-friendly smile that Crowley had gifted to him outside. He’d also invented regifting, though it had been an accident. Hell did so enjoy their White Elephant exchanges and Crowley was terrible at keeping up with who had gifted him which human femur. Hopefully he’s not too chatty, Crowley wants to get Warlock his lunch. 

“Yes?” he finally asks when the man does nothing save stand there, blocking his light and smiling at him. 

The man laughs, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Oh no, the Archangel is too important to remember the human. You’re hilarious, Raphael.” 

Crowley is not aware of having talked to any chatty, scruffy humans besides his own recently and his name certainly isn’t Raphael. The only being by that name he’s ever known was (and probably still is) a total wanker. Completely caught up in being perfect and beautiful and— 

Crowley can’t even finish the thought. It’s not true. They were actually rather close in the old days. Crowley can’t remember much of heaven now, but he gets the impression that he was never alone. That he wasn’t meant to be alone. He’d helped to light the night sky, taking the stars from Raphael as they were crafted and settling them into their paths. 

Sometimes he thinks of himself as something from those days. A lump of rock, pitted and pocked by impacts through the eons and orbiting a star he never chose. But, it’s all wrong because he was a moon, not a planet. Meant to circle and follow and reflect another’s glory, not foster his own. 

Sometimes he thinks those things. 

Most times he just thinks about how Raphael could be a bit of a stuck up prick and he’s better off without him or any of the rest of them. 

“You’ve got the others very worried,” the man is saying, nattering on without a whit of awareness that Crowley hasn’t a blessed clue what he’s talking about. “I do like the haircut though. Are you trying to surprise Aziraphale?”

He wrenches himself away from the thoughts of Heaven, annoyed as he always is when the tendrils of memory from those not-Days creep their way through him. He’s meant to be free of them. What was even the point of Falling if you still have to deal with Heaven’s nonsense? 

“M’not Raphael,” he snaps out, “Not your mate either. Fuck off.” 

The tourist stares at him, mouth dropping open in clear shock. “Oh, shite,” he says, gesturing something that’s probably meant to be explanatory, “I’ll just— Okay, I’m sorry, you look exactly like my friend.” 

The tendrils of memory that Crowley had so recently ripped away writhe in his grip, because Crowley’s never known anyone else who looks like him. Sure, there are other tall, gangly redheads about, but he knows that when humans look at him they see something _else_ and that means he’s always a singular entity for them. He barely remembers what Raphael looked like back then, but he cannot stand the thought of seeing him now. For the last six thousand years he’s managed to avoid seeing what he should have looked like, how he should have been. But, if this man knows someone who looks like him enough to mistake Crowley for that person…. Cold fear trickles down Crowley’s spine. 

“I don’t know any Raphael,” he says, slithering from the bench seat and to something approximating a standing position. “Can’t help you.” He claps one hand on the man’s shoulder and turns to leave, screw lunch, he’ll make Warlock a pickle and cheese at home. But before he can make it more than a few steps, the man is grabbing his wrist and pulling him back and Crowley is clamping down on every single part of himself. It was one thing in the morning, when he was rested and comfortable and surrounded by the smell of home to ignore insidious little demonic thoughts that wanted to crop up and tell him to hurt, to maim, to kill. Warlock wasn’t a random human, he was _Warlock_ and that made him different. 

It was another thing entirely when he had just been reminded of the worst time in his life and told the Archangel bleeding Raphael might be on the island. There was only one reason for him to be here that Crowley could think of and he was nearly sick at the idea. Then, he was grabbed by some random man and every single thing in him is shrieking _snapbitekillfreeyourself_. He feels scales beginning to trail up his body, blooming from beneath the fabric of his shirt under the human’s hand. 

He does not quash the instincts the way he does around Warlock because he isn’t convinced this man is benign, but he does wrestle them into something more manageable. He needs to figure out what is going on and how much danger he and Warlock are in. Crowley knows Warlock doesn’t register as quite human to anyone paying attention. It had been the reason no one realized he wasn’t the AntiChrist until it was far too late. There isn’t anything inherently different about the boy, it's just that Crowley had been rather free with her Miracles the first few years as his Nanny and that lingers. 

Warlock wasn’t occult or ethereal or anything but human and anyone who took the time for more than a glance would know that. But Crowley does not trust Angels to give him more than that first glance. 

He ruthlessly shoves away the mental image of Warlock surrounded by Angels, begging for Cro— 

“Releassse me,” he hisses, allowing a little demonic malice to leak from his tightly constrained true self. 

To his credit, the human does not flinch. “Okay,” he says, pushing his glasses up from where they’ve slipped down his nose, “This is going to sound incredibly weird and I’m really really sorry about it, but is it possible that you have the afternoon free?” 

The non sequitur combined with the man’s apparent lack of fear startles Crowley into replying, “Why the fuck would I— No, nk, why does it matter if I have the afternoon?” 

The man lets go of his wrist and bless it all but Crowley’s intrigued now. He watches as the man glances to the door and the barkeep before looking back at Crowley. 

“Okay, I have a friend who needs a bit of a favor,” he explains. His eyes are huge, sickeningly earnest. Crowley had taught Warlock how to argue for what he wanted when he was three, illustrating how to lay out reasoning and benefits for the other party with little piles of biscuits and pasties. _Emotions_ , she’d said, her voice low and sure, _should never come into it. As soon as you feel something you’ve already lost_ [7].

“It’s nothing dangerous, or I guess not really dangerous?” 

_Don’t contradict yourself,_ Nanny Astoreth had said, _make up your mind and stick with it and if you say something you mean that thing. Your word is your bond, little king._

“It’s just that he’s meant to get married today and there’s something really bad that’s going to happen if he doesn’t. But, his partner’s gone missing and the wedding starts in,” he glances at his watch, “An hour.” 

_Never let them know how much you want it_ , she’d tsked, tapping the child’s chin with the tip of her finger, tilting it away from the biscuits so he had to look her in the eye. _You’ll want for nothing when you take your place as King_ [8]. 

“What do you want from me?” 

“Well, you look just like his fiance and I can’t— I don’t want the bad thing to happen.” 

_They can’t know they have something you need,_ she’d whispered to a sleeping Warlock when the lesson was over. _You don’t need anything at all._

“I can pay you,” the man says and Crowley drags himself back into the present moment because it’s _hard_ to do Miracles on this island and money is actually something he has to think about now. “A lot. All you have to do is stand in for his partner so the bad thing doesn’t happen and I’ll make sure you never have to worry about money again.” 

Crowley narrows his eyes, thinks _never let them know how much you need it_ , and nods. Warlock wasn’t expecting him anyway, the kid can fend for himself and Crowley can make sure they’ve got enough money for the next few years. 

“I promise he’s a nice guy and we’ll make sure—”

“I said I’ll do it. Where is the wedding?” 

The man looks pathetically relieved and Crowley resists the desire to sneer. At least until the man claps him on the shoulder and passes him on his way to the door. He indulges in proper sneer then. 

* * *

An hour and five minutes later Crowley is standing outside the small chapel attached to the back of the old castle, feeling as if he’s been scoured half to death before being treated like a child’s dress-up doll. For Satan’s sake he’s wearing _white._ Worse, his hair has been cropped short and had his face attacked with make-up to cover his mark by a (frankly terrifying) woman. 

“You didn’t say there was a church involved,” he snaps at the man, whose name, he’s learned, is Newt. 

“I did say it was a wedding,” Newt protests. He’s trying to adjust his tie, struggling with the knot in a way that tells Crowley he’s never held an office job for more than a week at a stretch. 

“To a man!” Crowley gestures to himself. The corporation he’s wearing is lean (and looks good in white, though that’s not a thought he really wants to engage with) and shaped in a way that made the majority of humans assume ‘man’. “I just assumed—” 

“It’s not a real wedding,” Newt assures him. 

“That’s not the blessed problem!” 

“Hush!” Anathema the Terrifying, comes back from where she’d been peering in the door. “Aziraphale is at the altar. You’ll walk up, say nothing to him except ‘I’ and ‘do’ and then you’ll leave. We,” she points to herself and Newt, “will explain everything to him afterward. Can you manage that?” 

He wants to hiss at her, but has the feeling she would just return the gesture. She meets his gaze evenly, waiting for his answer. And, fuck it all, he actually thinks about it. 

It’ll hurt, he knows that. It’ll hurt a lot. But there’s no damage from standing on holy ground, or at least no more than he’s enduring living on this island in the first place. 

“Not Catholic right?” He spits out after a long moment. 

Anathema shakes her head. “No, not anything you’ll have seen before. Something,” her eyes sparkle, “Something much older than that.” 

Oh great. Normally Crowley quite liked pagans but he was having a bad enough day without listening to soliloquies to the stars or whatever. 

“Fine,” he mutters. “Let’s get this over with.” 

He turns on his heel ( _white_ _leather_ , this man had terrible taste, Crowley weeps for his soon-to-be husband) and approaches the doors. Pausing only long enough to take a few deep breaths, he pushes them open and steps inside. 

He makes it all of three steps before the light sunburn sting he’s used to begins to increase, another two before he looks up and sees the man he’s to ‘marry’. 

It’s not a man at all. 

Not fifteen steps from him in an _angel._ Dressed all in white and shining like its the happiest day of his blessed fucking life. 

Crowley very nearly turns and leaves. But the angel hasn’t moved and is still smiling at him and he realizes no one knows he’s a demon. If he hesitates or runs they’ll wonder why and he’ll be— 

He can’t leave Warlock alone. Not with Hastur still out there. 

He grits his teeth and forces his mouth into a benign smile that matches the angel’s and keeps walking. 

“Hello, my dear,” the angel at the altar whispers when Crowley reaches him. His eyes are blue. That’s the first thing Crowley notices about him and it's distracting enough that he forgets the ache in his legs and the burn in his feet for a few seconds. “I’m glad to see you. I was—” He cuts himself off and looks away, down to where his hands are clasped before himself. 

Crowley manages to croak out something approaching an actual word and hopes that Raphael is as smitten with this angel as he clearly deserves (if only because then the wordless noise might make sense). 

“Thank you for coming back,” the angel goes on. He reaches out and takes up Crowley’s hands, holding them tightly. Dimly, distantly, half lost in a haze of panic and pain and _oh wow he’s so warm, why is he so warm_ , Crowley realizes the angel’s hands are trembling. Without thinking about it, his own tighten around them, stealing what comfort he can even as he berates himself for ever giving that blessed tourist the time of day.

 _It’s gonna be okay,_ Crowley tells himself, _totally okay_. He’s gonna finish whatever weird marriage thing the satanblessed angel needs him for and then he’s gonna grab Warlock from wherever the kid’s run off to and then they’re gonna hide for the next few years until Crowley’s feet stop burning. 

Yeah. 

Totally okay. 

He’s able to convince himself that that might be true right up until the moment that the Archangels Gabriel and Michael enter the little chapel. 

_Oh right,_ he thinks, _I’m totally fucked._

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join these two men in the holiest of unions.” 

_Totally and completely fucked._

* * *

1Aziraphale hoped she sought help after the song was written about her. He knew what it was to ‘get low’ and it was a terrifically unpleasant feeling. Luckily, it seemed the man singing held her and her apple-bottom jeans, whatever those were.[return to text]

2Newt’s uncle, Thomasine Ladick (neither side of Newt’s family was terrifically gifted in the name department) was a kindly older gentleman who did resemble Aziraphale to a startling degree. He was not, however, knitting during those hours. He was engaged by a secretive organization who concerned themselves with codes and the breaking thereof and found them easier to visualize in 50% wool, 50% cotton blend than ones and noughts.[return to text]

3The problem arose because Mr. Burbidge took this to mean Raphael wanted a, ahem, closer look at the tunic when in reality Raphael was being entirely literal, he really had been searching for just the right pigments to capture the color of the ‘wine-dark’ sea and had wanted to speak with the artisan who dyed the cloth.[return to text]

4Crowley is painfully aware of how quickly the days slip away from him, faster and faster it seems as he weakens. He has so little time with Warlock. Soon all that will remain are sticky notes with erased sentiments.[return to text]

5And then, because that’s the way Crowley’s life goes, she was obliged to explain mortality to Warlock less than two years later when the rats passed on. It was a deeply traumatizing conversation for all involved.[return to text]

6No matter what anyone claims, Crowley played a large part in the invention of both mobile phone games and microtransactions. He’s rather proud of both, though he does have to carefully avoid thinking about how much extra money he’s had to miracle into his bank account over the years as he fell prey to them.[return to text]

7She was a hypocrite of the highest order, but Crowley knew that she’d lost the moment she held a sleeping Warlock in her arms and pledged herself to his service, sealing it with a kiss to his forehead (and then one to his nose because she’d seen parents do that hundred of times and always wondered about the appeal. She couldn’t say she didn’t understand.)[return to text]

8He’d asked her then if she would be there when he was king and, when she responded that he’d have no need of her, he’d said then he _would_ be wanting for something. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warlock this time, but I'm sure he's totally fine and not causing trouble at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Yall's response has been amazing and humbling, I'm so happy you're enjoying my deeply self-indulgent AU. I also refuse to apologize for spilling all my feelings about Crowley and Warlock on this chapter..... enjoy <3

_Sometimes it seems to Crowley as if the entire last decade of his life has been spent vacillating wildly between Holy and Unholy, Desecrated and Divine. It begins one night, nearly twelve years ago now, when he’s summoned to a desecrated graveyard, handed a basket, and told he is to once again to be the agent of his own misery. He takes it—he always takes it, that is the thing he hates most about himself—and drives away. He makes it nearly twenty minutes down the road before his breath catches in his chest and he’s forced to pull off the side of the road in the middle of the woods, twisting in his seat so he’s able to wedge his legs between the steering wheel and his torso and bury his head in them, fingers clutching his hair and burning, aching tears cutting lines down his face._

_He doesn’t want the Earth to end. He doesn’t want Hell to win in some glorious battle any more than he wants the world re-made in Heaven’s image. The humans are their own and they deserve to determine their own destiny._

_The baby in the backseat cries out and Crowley allows himself three more shuddering breaths, each in time with the little one’s pitched wails. Then, he swings his legs back down to the pedals and drives to the convent where he makes a mistake that he will not be aware of for another eleven years._

His feet burn. 

“If there are any who believe the souls of these two angels, holiest among Her Creations, should not be bonded for all Eternity, from now until the day that Her Final Judgement passes upon us, speak now or forever hold your—”

“ _Peace, child!” Crowley should not laugh as much as she does with little Warlock. Each time she tells herself it will be the last, that next time she will be stern, that she will instill in him the strength of will to be a pillar before his armies. Each time she tells herself this and each time she fails when he turns a gap-toothed smile on her and asks ‘Nanny, how can I be sure my generals love me?’ or ‘Nanny, if I eat all my peas may I please please_ please _place tacks on the driveway?’._ Stern, _she tells herself as she scoops him into her arms,_ he will be your end and you know it[1]. 

Uncompromising, _she thinks as she collects crayons and clumsy drawings of black-winged demons and little boys surrounded by the armies of the Damned and also endless fields of flowers._

_She chucks him under the chin, tilting his head upward so she can meet his gaze._

_“Have you—”_

“—prepared any vows?” 

There are blue eyes searing into him, ripping away what little defenses Crowley had managed to shore up before entered this blessed place. He watches as they crinkle a little in a timid sort of smile and resists the sudden, mad urge to return it. 

The thought occurs that this angel’s betrothed ~~oh Satan, that’s the Archangel Raphael he’s here he is somewhere on the island~~ would probably smile at him and it might be suspicious if Crowley doesn’t. So, he gives in to the impulse and redirects some of the frantic nerve signals from his gritted teeth to his facial muscles to twitch the corners of his mouth into a tiny smile. 

The angel practically _glows_ and Crowley’s feet feel almost cold with pain. 

“I’d prefer to say my vows in private, that is if that’s alright?” The angel glances to the priest, but it’s clear that he’s actually asking permission from the assembled Archangels in the pews. Crowley cannot bring himself to look at them. The only thing stopping him from becoming a gibbering wreck on the floor is keeping his eyes locked on the angel before him. 

If he screws this up, Warlock won’t ever know what happened to him. 

The image of the boy returning to their empty cottage, eagerly calling out for Crowley and finding only empty spaces, curdles in his gut. _Why the everloving fuck did he agree to this?_

“My dear?” The angel in front of him reaches out and clasps his hands, pulling them close enough that Crowley stumbles forward a half-step. He realizes that he’s missed something, some question, but he has no idea what. Everything he can find in his mind is just the snap-crackle haze of base fear. 

Distantly, he feels the muscles around his lungs begin to work, expanding and contracting rapidly, the air cooling his throat on the intake and warming it as it rushed back out. 

There’s pressure around his fingers, firm and grounding. He banishes the need to breathe at all and freezes those muscles in place. The angel is waiting, patient, for his response and he can hear shuffling from the pews, can smell the burnt-sugar divinity in the air. 

He nods, the barest jerk of his head, and it’s clearly enough because the angel’s smile softens a few more ticks towards genuine. 

“We’re agreed,” the angel tells the priest. “Our vows are for our ears alone.” 

“Very well.” The priest went on, but Crowley could not focus on his words, only able to nod when the angel did and cling to his hands, an embarrassingly weak display of all the reasons he’d not fit in in Hell. 

Later, he’ll look back and remember only snatches of the ceremony. 

_The angel pulling rings from his pocket, sliding the blazing band onto his left hand._

_The strange, settling sensation at the base of his spine as he murmured his assent to the Binding, trying to recall what Raphael had sounded like all those eons before._

_The silence from the Archangels and the subdued applause from the humans who’d tricked him into this as the priest pronounced them Bonded._

When he comes back to himself he’s being shoved into a tiny room at the top of a turret and the door is closing with a resounding thud. He stands where his momentum ran out, stock-still and wondering how the Devil he managed to get himself in this mess. 

“Well,” a quiet voice says, sending a thrill of terror down Crowley’s spine. “That’s that then, my dear.” 

The angel he’d just stood before walks around past him, casually unbuttoning his suit jacket and slipping it off before adjusting his shirt cuffs. He looks up at Crowley with a small smile. 

“Are you quite alright, Raphael?” he asked, “You’re not usually one for—” He gestured to Crowley’s face and the sunglasses he wore. 

Crowley makes a noise not dissimilar to a whoopie cushion, clears his throat, and makes one rather like a duckling being strangled. 

The angel frowns. 

“Raphael?” He approaches and Crowley takes a few stumbling steps backward, the sudden flare of agony from his feet distracts him long enough for the angel to reach out and pluck the glasses from his face. 

“No—” he tries but it’s already too late. 

The angel’s face hardens. “Who are you and what have you done with Raphael?” 

Crowley scrambles for an explanation other than ‘I’m the demon Crowley, formerly Crawly, formerly [redacted], and your human friend paid me human money to pretend to bond to you which I agreed to because I’m raising a human child I sort of kidnapped and can’t do Miracles here.’ 

He doesn’t think that would all go over especially well. 

“Erk,” he says, eloquent as always. 

The angel’s expression is thunderous. “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll—” 

The door behind Crowley swings open to reveal the two humans who got Crowley into this mess in the first place. 

Suddenly, he finds his words. 

“Great fucking plan!” He snaps, snatching his glasses back and whirling to face the humans, “Grab the first demon you see and shove him in a church, that’s good for a laugh! Oh, you’ll just be marrying our friend, you say, no mention that he’s a bleedin’ angel or that it’s not a marriage at all.” 

He pauses to glare at them all, panting. 

Anathema hums, “That _does_ explain your aura. I thought it looked odd for Raphael.” She doesn’t sound bothered in the least and Crowley resists the urge for some good old fashioned demonic fun at the expense of her blood volume. 

“A demon?” The angel says, very quietly. 

Crowley glances back at him, lip lifted in a mocking snarl. “Of course,” he says, “What else would I be?”

“Anathema,” tourist-asshole-whom-Crowley-should-have-killed-on-sight[2] sounds afraid. 

“Right,” Anathema nods. “No time for all that now.” She pauses and glances back over her shoulder, “You two might need to do a bit of acting. Demons like acting right?” She keeps talking over anything Crowley might have said, “Good, sound like newly-weds in the marital suite, if you please.” Then, she grabbed Tourist’s hand and stepped back, pulling him into the hallway. 

“Shouldn’t be too long!” She pulls the door closed with a snap and, before either Crowley or the angel can react, the wood glows in thin lines as the chalk sigils drawn across it activate. 

“Anathema, dear!” The angel calls, distress clear. 

“Oh! Hello there Gabriel!” Anathema’s voice is muffled but clear. Both Crowley and the angel freeze, straining to hear. 

“Witch,” the Archangel Gabriel does not sound pleased and Crowley has to resist the urge to drop to the floor and curl up in a little ball of snake because the last time he heard Gabriel’s voice it really, really hadn’t ended well for him. “Open the door.” 

“Mm, yeah no I can’t do that,” Anathema sounds sure and unafraid and Crowley is really starting to wonder what they feed kids these days. 

There’s a pause and Crowley doesn’t like to think about Gabriel but he _can_ picture the look on Gabriel’s face as he’s denied entry by a slip of a woman in a wool tartan a-line. 

“Who are you again?” The angel behind Crowley (oh Satan, he’s surrounded) makes a small noise that might be fear or might be indigestion. 

“Anathema Device,” she says, “Agnes Nutter is my ancestor and I will not allow you through this door.” 

Another pause. 

“There’s a prophecy about that, is there?” 

“What is she doing?” the angel hisses. He’s moved closer to Crowley and he can feel hot breath on the back of his neck. He leans away, twisting to gain as much distance as possible. “Agnes didn’t have anything to say about this.” He says ‘this’ like he means more than Gabriel trying to get through the door, like he’s talking about Crowley and himself and the strange pull in the air that keeps dragging Crowley’s eyes back to him. 

“Shut up,” Crowley hisses. 

“You’ll find, sir, that there are prophecies about a great many things.” Crowley’s annoyance shifts to admiration. 

“Right,” Gabriel says, deeply unamused. “Well, tell Raphael I wish to speak with him when he’s… finished with the principality.” 

Crowley gives in to the impulse to glance at the angel again and sees that he’s gone grey, the corners of his mouth pinched tight and his eyes very bright. 

They wait in silence for a few seconds before Anathema says brightly, “I’ll be sure to do that! Bye-bye!” 

Footsteps and then Anathema’s voice, louder this time, as if she’s pressed against the door. “Sorry about that, we saw him headed this way. Until we find Raphael, you two stay in there, the wards will let him in, we just have to tell him where to go.”

“Oh no,” Crowley snarled, “That was not part of the deal. I walk down the aisle, say a few words so your buddy here isn’t embarrassed, and you give me a massive sum of money.” 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Anathema’s voice is getting quieter, “Aziraphale will make sure you get paid though.” 

Then, she’s gone and he’s alone, locked in a room with the angel he just— 

“A demon,” the angel whispers, staring at him. No, not ‘the angel’, _Aziraphale,_ Crowley realizes. Anathema had said the name before the ceremony started. He’d just been so… _everything_ that he forgot until he heard it again. 

Aziraphale. 

It was a nice name, no matter that it was attached to an angel. He liked the way it tripped across the loops of his true form when he thought it. Like a bit of dandelion fluff in a sunbeam. 

Then, he remembers the situation the bearer of the name has trapped him in and any good feeling drains away. 

“Yeah,” he snaps furious and afraid and in pain and exhausted by all of it. “A God Damned demon. So sorry to ruin your day, princess.” 

He limps across the room and throws himself on the only piece of furniture, a luxurious bed appointed with entirely too many pillows and linens in a rich tartan. 

“This is what happens when you try to help people out.” He gestures at the ceiling, aware that he’s being watched and just… not caring. He’s so past caring. 

“I don’t— I don’t understand,” Aziraphale says hesitantly. “Why do you look like Raphael?” 

“Maybe he looks like me,” Crowley mutters, the sting of separation as fresh as ever. 

“That doesn’t,” the angel approaches and, after a moment of hesitation, sits on the bed, as far from Crowley as possible. The shift in weight rolls him a bit and he scoots back to compensate. “That doesn’t explain anything at all.” 

“Isn’t that grand,” Crowley snips, “Think of how I feel. Set out to help a guy and end up Bonded to an angel.” 

“Oh, well it’s not a real—” 

“Not a real Bond?” Crowley shifts so he can lean on his elbows and see the angel, “Why the fuck wouldn’t it be?” 

“Oh, dear, oh no.” Aziraphale is twisting his hands in his lap, clearly distraught and Crowley, oh fuck, Crowley realizes he doesn’t like that. 

“I mean, it’s fine,” he says, “We can just get your pet witch to break it as soon as the Archangels leave.”

A warm hand lands on his calf and Crowley jerks, pulling away. There’s not any room to be spread out on the bed and still have space between him and Aziraphale’s hand, so his scooted further back and leans against the wall. Aziraphale’s hand hovers in the air for a moment before landing on the tartan. 

“My apologies,” Aziraphale says, staring at his hands, “I should not have presumed. I only meant to comfort—What I mean to say is that the bond cannot be broken so easily. It was,” he pauses swallowing hard and continues at a whisper, “It was meant to last for all eternity.” 

The fizzing, buzzing sound is back in Crowley’s ears. 

“Well,” he manages through a throat so tight he fears it might close entirely, “That’ssss jussst fucking dandy.” 

* * *

The angel keeps trying to catch his eye, smiling in that stupid way adults have, where they want to look like your friend but also like they have a particularly unpleasant chore for you to complete. He keeps his eyes stubbornly on the sketch he’s making. Raphael is surprisingly easy to draw, he’s drawn Crowley often enough after all. 

As he draws he thinks, mind desperately clicking away over the facts. Warlock isn’t stupid. He is young and sometimes naïve but never stupid. He knows exactly what will happen if angels or demons or anything supernatural at all finds Crowley[3].

Mostly he can set aside that worry. Crowley is old, ancient, the oldest thing on Earth, Warlock is pretty sure. That means he knows how to protect himself, knows how to make them safe. That was something he learned a few nights after Meggido. 

_“Crowley?” Warlock whispers into the arms that encircle him, tasting the name on his tongue. “Not Ashtoreth?”_

_“Both are alright,” Nanny tells him, his voice gentle in the way that it only was in the darkest parts of the night when Warlock was scared and weak. The King Over All Hell wasn’t meant to be afraid of the dark, but it turns out that Warlock is nothing but an eleven-year-old boy and he’s desperately afraid of the dark. “I’m not your Nanny anymore, that was a job, and now I’d prefer Anthony if you have to use a first name. But sometimes I might like Ashtoreth just fine, I’ll let you know.”_

_“Astoreth and Anthony,” Warlock repeats them a few times, committing them to memory. “And Crowley. Is that your last name?”_

_“Crowley is my only name really.” The arms around Warlock shift, a shudder running through them even as the chest below his ear rises and falls. “It’s the first one I chose for myself and it always fits, even when neither of the other two do.”_

_Warlock mouths the name a few times, growing comfortable with it before nodding against Crowley’s chest. “Okay. It’s nice to meet you, Crowley.” A warm hand travels up his spine to rest along the back of his neck. It feels safe._

_“Nice to meet you too, little dragon.” It’s so very familiar that the tears he’s kept back for the last few days finally break free and before he can quite comprehend what’s happening, Warlock is sobbing, wrapped up in Crowley’s arms and clinging with everything he has. The hand on his neck slowly opens and closes, a gentle pulse that he can time his breath to, an old routine he barely remembers from when he was tiny._

_For the first time since his disastrous birthday party when his Nanny had been fired and his parents fought in front of all his friends, he drifts off to sleep feeling safe._

“I promise that things are not what they appear,” the being in front of him tries to tell him. Warlock scowls, hearing the patronizing tone of someone who thinks he’s behaving irrationally. 

“You’re not an angel?” 

Raphael raises a hand and sweeps bright red hair back from his face, capturing it in a shining golden thread. “No, obviously I am.” A few perfect sparks of light cling to his fingers when he pulls them free of his hair. Warlock’s eyes linger on them for a moment, thinking how they look like tiny stars. 

Crowley would like a hair tie like that. Maybe he can— 

No, lesson one in defending them was not to make Deals with anyone, no matter how pretty their accessories. That last bit wasn’t part of Crowley’s lessons, but it seems like an important addendum. 

No deals with demons (other than who would take the bin out and who would sweep the baseboards) and _no_ deals with angels. 

“But, I mean you and your guardian no harm,” Raphael goes on. He’s clearly trying to look approachable, settling into a crouched position, so his head is below Warlock’s and quirking his brows in a way that reminds him so strongly of Crowley that he has to look away. The resemblance between the two is upsetting, but there’s nothing of the dark and damp about Raphael, nothing of soil or growing things of a decade of love and care. Warlock could never mistake the angel for his demon. 

He takes a few breaths to steady himself. 

“Right,” he snaps. “I don’t believe you. You’re an angel. You all want us gone.” Crowley had actually never said ‘us’, but Warlock knows he wouldn’t be alright without Crowley so really, if they take the demon away from him then they’re dooming him. He begins pacing, trying to come up with a plan. He’d not thought past getting the angel to the circle he’d spent the first month and a half of his time on the island sneaking away to carve into the stone, sure that he might one day need one again. 

“Crowley says none of you care about humans,” he says, more to himself than the angel. “He says you only care about God’s Plan or somesuch.” He snorts, “Crowley doesn’t like your lot very much.” 

“That’s grand,” Raphael says, voice dry as the Plain, “Only, I don’t know who the devil this _Crowley_ is, mate.” 

“He’s a hero!” it bursts from Warlock before he can stop it and he blushes hotly, embarrassed. But, Raphael smiles at him. 

“Oh? A hero demon? This I have to hear.” He topples back from his crouch into a half lean that reminds Warlock sharply of the way Crowley sits in the dirt of the back garden, scolding the seedlings as quietly as he can. It makes him almost want to trust the angel. 

Almost. 

He doesn’t. Won’t. But, perhaps Warlock can sway his opinion away from smiting towards kinder thoughts. 

“Yeah!” he nods rapidly and launches into the story of how Crowley raised him, posing as his Nanny and making sure that he loved Earth while pretending to teach him how to be the AntiChrist. He explains about their trips to the zoo, where Crowley had told him about what a pain all these animals had been on the arc where he’d hidden away as a snake, curled around the horns of a ram. He tells Raphael how Crowley still mourned the unicorns, who he’d seen trying to keep their heads above water when it was far too late to help and have his own stowaways remain undiscovered. 

When he falls silent Raphael is quiet for a moment before he says, voice completely serious for the first time since they met, “He told you about the ark?” 

Warlock nods rapidly. “Yeah, Crowley never lies to me. He says that truth is the most important thing on Earth.”

Raphael is quiet. He wipes a hand across his face, pausing to press long fingers into his strangely human eyes. Warlock shifts from foot to foot, unsure if he should keep talking. The day is beginning to slip away and he’ll need to go back to the cottage soon to grab food or Crowley will worry. But he doesn’t want to leave if Raphael is still a threat, even trapped in the circle the angel’s presence is oppressive, overwhelming the careful walls Crowley had taught him how to build around himself. 

Eventually, Raphael looks up. 

“Warlock, I believe that you think your Crowley is a good person, though I’m less sure of his intentions myself.” 

Warlock scowls. Why do adults always—

“But, heed me, human,” Raphael goes on, sounding suddenly ancient, “If he truly is a demon there are two truths that you must know.” 

Warlock can’t stop himself from asking, “What?” 

“First, he cannot survive here for very long. The very land of this island is Holy, no demon can abide it.” Warlock thinks about the slow, aching way Crowley moves in the mornings, about the days he cannot rise from bed at all and can barely lift his head to sip at the water Warlock brings him[4].

He swallows back all the protests he wants to fling at Raphael, waiting for the second truth. 

The angel studies him but when he doesn’t speak nods and continues, “Second, it might appear as if he cares for you, but I assure you, no demon can feel positive emotions like that. The ability was ripped from them when they lost their Grace.” 

Warlock’s eyes widen, his breath picks up, and his hands shake. He’s been mad before, terrified more often than he’d like to admit, and upset as much as anyone. He’s never been furious before, never felt rage. 

Suddenly he _gets_ why wrath is a deadly sin. 

Luckily, he’s got someone to talk to about those. 

He turns on his heel and leaves the cave, ignoring Raphael’s protests. 

“You can rot,” he throws over his shoulder as he begins to climb. “Good luck escaping that circle. I learned from the best.” 

Footnotes:

1Because there is nothing so Hellish as killing one’s mentor.[return to text]

2Crowley is feeling a bit vindictive and has decided Newt doesn’t deserve a name just now.[return to text]

He’d never had the luxury of ignorance really. Not when he’d been told graphically, and at length by Hastur on that long, hot day last August in Meggido.Text[return to text]

4They still have fun. Warlock fetches his notebook and curls up against Crowley’s side and they look through his drawings, Warlock describing why he’s chosen each subject, Crowley’s thin fingers splayed across the pages, picking up bits of charcoal that he’d reach out and smudge across Warlock’s nose. Warlock hates that Crowley hurts, but he doesn’t hate that time.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for Crowley calling Warlock "little dragon" goes to [D20Owlbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeforeCrimson/pseuds/D20Owlbear) who is guaranteed to rip your heart out in the best way with ens' minibang (coming soon) and who has an utterly astounding/wonderful catalog of GO to read. 10/10 recommend <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof this took a bit huh? in my defense I had about 90% written of it for a long time and the last 300 words of a scene in the middle jsut.... fought me so hard. I hope you like it! 
> 
> (also, I promise they finally really talk next chapter. just gotta get them alone and feeling vaguely safe first)

_The first rain is pleasant, a refreshing shower on the Walls of Eden as he and Aziraphale watch the humans make their way into the wider world. Raphael spreads his wings and delights in the way the water droplets gather and roll across the oiled feathers. Just as they had in space, they shine, pearl-iridescence catching the bright shafts of sunlight that peek through the rolling clouds. He’d never been alone in space either, though his companion had always been too caught up in asking questions and pushing the bounds of their assigned task to enjoy the quiet sparks of beauty._

_“Is it meant to be like this?” Aziraphale asks, holding one hand out and marveling at the way the tiny image of the desert turns over on itself within._

_Raphael is, despite himself, charmed. He’d only come down to Earth to check in on the Principality no one had wanted to assign here in the first place. But, it’s been so long since anyone asked him a question that wasn’t, “Isn’t it a lovely day?” or “Another verse of Climb Every Mountain?” that he finds himself wanting to linger, to find out what other thoughts the angel might have._

_He’d loved his companion in the stars. They’d been created to work in concert and he’s realizing as the Principality looks at him expectantly that he’d been lonely ever since they-_

_“I believe so,” Raphael says, smiling. “Water is to be life, here on Earth. I think it will always reveal the beauty hidden beneath the surface.”_

_Aziraphale nods and tilts his hand so the droplet trails down his wrist. “I like it,” he says; his simple enjoyment of something Raphael is sure no angel in Heaven would have noticed settles something in Raphael’s chest._

_“Yes,” he agrees, “I do, too.”_

__

* * *

Aziraphale has just decided that perhaps it’s been long enough and Anathema can give them the all-clear when the demon lurches up from the bed.

“Oh!” Aziraphale jolts back and away, then has to try and hide the blush he knows is staining his cheeks. But the demon pays him no mind, staggering towards the window instead. 

“Whatever are you doing?” Aziraphale asks when the demon reaches the window. He doesn’t respond as he grips the stone frame, leaning towards the narrow opening. 

“Demon! Explain yourself!” Aziraphale demands, feeling rather like stomping his foot on the ground and then is pleased with himself to have resisted that urge.

The demon pauses and looks back at him, his face caught in a determined sort of mask. 

“I’m leaving,” he snaps. “Sorry, but I’m not sitting around here and waiting for an Archangel to smite me out of existence. Believe it or not, I’ve got better things to be doing.” 

He leans out the window, one hand hooked like a claw around the frame as he overbalances to see as far down the side as possible. For a moment, looking at him— dressed all in white, his red hair shining in the sunlight—Aziraphale can almost pretend that this is Raphael. That they’re together and he’s not…. 

Then, the demon turns and looks back at him. 

He looks as if he’s about to speak, but before he gets any further than opening his mouth something heavy slams into the door. The demon jolts and nearly topples from the window before he catches himself. 

“Raphael!” Gabriel shouts, hitting the door again so hard it rattles. Aziraphale stands. Every instinct in him is screaming to answer the door, to accommodate his superior, to make sure he’s not any more displeased than he already is with Aziraphale. But, he can’t. 

No, it’s more than that. 

_He doesn’t want to_. 

Those instincts had nearly led to the end of everything and Aziraphale cannot listen to them. Moreover, Gabriel had been ready to kill him, to force him into Hellfire and unmake every thread that bound him together. He’d thwarted Armageddon for humanity; that was true and that was the largest part of it, but Aziraphale would be lying to himself if there hadn’t been some selfish motivation there as well. 

He is tired of Heaven. Tired of being ignored and dismissed and mocked and reviled by the beings who should see him as one of their own. 

He doesn’t want to let Gabriel in. 

There’s another knock and the wood makes an ominous creaking noise, despite the wards Aziraphale and Anathema spent so long perfecting. 

“Angel?” The demon hisses. He’s wild-eyed with what Aziraphale finally realizes is fear. 

“You can’t go out the window,” Aziraphale says, the words quiet, dripping his lips like honey on a cold morning. 

“I bloody well can.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head, but Gabriel is yelling something and the demon is swinging his leg over the sill. If Gabriel is in here, Aziraphale is positive that at least one of the others will be outside, standing guard. Archangels are like that, always arranging themselves for a battle no one else realizes they’re fighting. If the demon slips out the window he’ll surely be spotted and they’ll realize he’s not Raphael and they’ll call that terrible demon with the Hellfire back and-

Before he’s realized it, Aziraphale has crossed the room and grabbed the demon’s wrist. He yanks it away from the windowsill. 

“What the fuck are you doing? Let go of me!” The demon struggles, pulling away from him. 

“If you’ll just come, unf, back insi-” He’s cut off by a foot in his gut. It’s surprising enough that he overbalances, wobbling back and then forward when the demon tries once again to pull his hand free. 

He topples forward and hits the demon, who still had one leg on the outside of the windowsill, and to his horror, they don’t stop moving. Aziraphale has just long enough to meet the demon’s wide eyes before they’re both falling from the window towards the moat. 

* * *

_“I’m sorry about your drawings.”_

_Raphael looks up from the rolling waters to Aziraphale. He’s… not_ sad _; because that’s unbecoming of an Archangel, especially when this is all part of Her Plan. But, something in his chest aches to think of the delicate chalk lines washed away. The humans he’d worked alongside had pressed their hands into the red clay, then to the walls around them, and when they’d smiled at him they had been so proud._

_He wonders if that pride is what doomed them to this, if that’s what the others meant when they spoke of humanity’s hubris._

_He wonders what it is about such simple pride that could be so wrong._

_“Well,” Aziraphale says, “perhaps we might pass the rest of the storm below deck? I’m not sure my wings will ever be dry again.” As Raphael watches he shakes them, sending a spray of water in all directions. The feathers end up sticking out at odd angles, leaving him looking like a half-drowned owl._

_Raphael smiles._

_“Of course, lead the way, Aziraphale.”_

_The hold is dark and cramped, smelling of animals in a way that borders on unpleasant. There is an unnatural peace laid over them all so that they might survive the confinement; but they still grumble and chuff and whicker. The noise is so much more than Raphael had expected._

_“It’s quieter over here,” Aziraphale tells him. They wend their way through the paired beasts until they reach the back wall. There are a few sheep of various species here, their horns alternately twisted and bent and their wool still soft despite the damp. There are a few serpents twined around the horns of one of the largest rams, their glossy scales reflecting the dim light that peeks through the narrow portholes._

_Aziraphale spots Raphael looking at them and smiles. “The poor dears were on the ground,” he explains, reaching out to stroke down the back of the largest snake. It’s as big around as Raphael’s wrist at the widest point and a rich black. “The sheep were frightened by that last wave and the serpents would have been trampled.”_

_“Is that not their fate?” Raphael asks, thinking of the Lord’s Punishment of the serpents. No other beast had to crawl through the dirt as they did, perhaps they were meant to-_

_“No, I do not think so,” Aziraphale says. He taps the very tip of the serpent’s nose; his smile has grown soft, far more relaxed than Raphael has ever seen him before. “There’s no call for punishing them all for the sins of one.”_

_That sounds dangerously close to the sort of thing that had been said before the War._

_“Aziraphale,” Raphael says, his tone cautious._

_Aziraphale looks up from the serpent and his eyes widen, as if realizing who he’s speaking to for the first time. The casual ease of his posture vanishes. Raphael finds himself sorry to see it go, for all that he’s pleased the Principality has come to his senses._

_They settle against a pile of bundled textiles and Raphael watches in silence as Aziraphale worries at his wings, trying to brush every drop of water away from the sodden feathers._

_Unnoticed, the largest serpent slips from the ram’s horn and vanishes into the throng._

* * *

Crowley has never been afraid of lowercase-F falling. It’s hard to have too much fear when one has both wings and the ability to Miracle oneself out of a sticky situation. He’d get knocked off a tower or a turret or a wall or a blessed fucking cliff or whatever and he’d fall just long enough to make it look real. And then he’d snap and bob’s-your-uncle; the humans in question think they’re murderers, and their souls are secured for Hell. While Crowley is safe and sound, holed up in a tavern with a good vintage. 

Almost routine, really. 

Neither of those options are available to him right now, he realizes, as Aziraphale trips and pushes him through the window. Teleportation is so far beyond the simple Miracles he can manage these days it’s not even funny, and there’s not nearly enough space between the window and the water to unfurl his wings for any kind of lift. 

Normally, he’d not mind taking a quick dip, but he and Warlock learned the hard way their first week on the Island that if water lingered against the earth here for too long it became somewhat Holy. Moats aren’t known for their liveliness; he’s _sure_ that this water has been here for decades, if not longer. 

Forget Archangels or Bonds, that water will kill him as sure as anything else in Creation. 

Halfway down the side of the castle, Crowley sloughs off his human form, instinctively seeking the comfort of scales. Aziraphale loses his grip on him as he slims and twists. Crowley shoves every bit of energy he has left into slowing time, casting about desperately for some way to avoid hitting the water. They’ve fallen too far for him to reach the window, and the walls are smooth (to say nothing of his sudden lack of fingers for gripping), but at the very base of the tower there are what appear to be thorn bushes growing out over the water. He flips over himself and braces to grab on, hoping he’s made himself small enough that the branches won’t break under him. 

The scarce few seconds he’s bought slip away from him and the world speeds back up. Crowley hits the branches a bare instant later. They creak under him but hold. He’s just breathing a heavy sigh of relief when Aziraphale splashes down into the water, and then he’s consumed by agony as holy water crashes over him. 

He really, really should have stayed in bed this morning. 

* * *

Aziraphale fights his way back to the surface of the water, blinking it from his eyes and trying very hard not to curse. The water is cold and has the uniquely bad smell that only stagnant water can cultivate; new life and rot and somehow always the smell of the Waterloo tube station on a Thursday evening in high summer. He stands, grateful it’s at least only just above waist deep. 

He runs one hand through his hair, sweeping the damp curls back up into some semblance of order and looks around for the demon. He hasn’t resurfaced yet and the water is still now save for the expanding ripples of his own movement. He’d felt the faintest ripple of a demonic Miracle as they fell, but nothing large enough for teleportation or flight or anything like that. He looks back up towards the window, thinking that perhaps the demon had been able to grab the wall when he twisted out of Aziraphale’s grip. 

“Oh!” 

There, not an arms-length away from his face, is a great serpent, all black and red and with the most striking eyes Aziraphale has ever seen. He feels a frisson of thrill run up his spine as the serpent’s tongue flickers out and back in slowly. 

“Is that- are you the- What I mean to say is-”

“Aziraphale, what the fuck are you doing in the moat?” Aziraphale whips around to see Anathema standing on the stone bridge that led up to the castle doors. “I said act like newlyweds, not go for a fucking swim!” 

Aziraphale feels like that’s a bit unfair, but before he can say so she waves her hands and looks back over her shoulder. 

“It doesn’t matter, you can tell me about all the weird shit you and your demon beau got up to later.” He _really_ has something to say about that but she’s not done. “Gabriel went upstairs and I hear Michael and Uriel saying something about the roof and you need to leave _now_.” 

All protests about her implications of improper behavior between himself and the demon flee Aziraphale’s mind. He wrings his hands together. 

“Of course,” he says and then a terrible thought occurs. “Anathema, my dear, you really must be careful. They won’t take kindly to you interfering with them.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m staying hidden. Look, you two get someplace safe and find a phone, Newt’s still looking for Raphael, we’ll call you as soon as we find him.” She glances over her shoulder again. “Now, please, go!”

Aziraphale swallows and before he can second-guess himself, reaches up and grabs the demon, clutching him tight to his chest and beginning to wade out from the water. The demon protests quietly, a faint hiss that’s mostly muffled against Aziraphale’s sodden waistcoat, but does not attempt to writhe away from him. In fact, he’s oddly pliant, almost limp really. They reach the edge of the moat and Aziraphale scrambles up the side, trying not to either fall or squish the demon in his hands. As soon as he’s on stable ground he pauses, glancing back towards Anathema. She gives him a thumbs-up and waves her hand for him to keep moving. He releases the demon long enough to snap with his right hand and ensure that she’ll pass unnoticed from all but the most determined eyes. Another quiet hiss follows his snap but he pays it no mind. He’s not sure the demon has full control over his faculties in this form. He’s clearly not entirely a snake because he’s docile, but he’s also not yet spoken and Aziraphale can feel the periodic flicker of his tongue against his wrist which is an oddly animal gesture. 

He hurries away from the castle, angling towards the tallest grasses and shrubs he can see, until he’s crossed a few low hills and the castle has disappeared entirely from view. 

“Any chancssse you could sssset me down?” 

“What?” Aziraphale asks. He still feels waterlogged and now he’s strangely sore all over. The snake in his arms is still, perfectly so. It’s such a change from how he’s behaved for the rest of their short acquaintance that Aziraphale is thrown off-kilter. “You can speak like this?” Why hadn’t he said anything before? Why was he content to be carried about like a pet? 

Why is everything about this demon so damnably confusing? 

“Hurtssss,” the demon hisses, still moving only his mouth. 

“What?” He doesn’t-

“H-Holy.” Now the snake twitches, ever so slightly and understanding sweeps over Aziraphale. 

“Oh!” 

On retelling, Aziraphale will do his best to reword things to sound more… composed, more angelic. He’ll say, “and so I released the demon, out of mercy. The poor thing did not deserve to suffer so,” or even something as simple as, “So I did.” 

Reality, as always, is rather less flattering than he would like. 

Had Warlock been there he would have described the action that took place as, “The angel yeeted[1] Crowley.” 

The exact words matter little. In the end, the effect is that Aziraphale, upon realizing that he is hurting the demon, jumps and thrusts him away, tossing him across the hillside and into a tall patch of reeds. 

Then, he snaps his fingers and wills the holy water from himself. He still feels oddly sore, but he’s at least no longer soaking wet. Running his fingers down the edge of his suit jacket, he sighs. It’s ruined. The drying Miracle had removed the water and muck, but he can still feel the way the fibers had become misaligned. It will itch at the back of his mind anytime he wears the outfit. 

Not that he ever wants to wear this again. 

It might have been different if it had been Raphael. Perhaps, in time, the pain of obligation might fade and they’d have been able to look back on this day with something approaching happiness. Perhaps then he’d want the suit as a memento. 

Now, he just wants his normal clothes. 

There is a long groan from the reeds, followed by a weak rush of demonic energy, and then there is once more a vaguely human-shaped entity lying before him. 

“Ow,” the demon says. “You know, I really, _really,_ fucking hate thisss bloody island.” He’s still hissing a bit and Aziraphale has to suppress the wild tendril of thought that tries to tell him it’s a charming trait. 

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks, crossing the distance between them to peer down at the demon. 

“No, I’m not bloody well _alright.”_ He struggles up to his elbows. Aziraphale can see painful-looking red patches spreading across the skin revealed by the open collar of his dress shirt. 

“Oh dear.” He’s at a loss for what he should be doing. He can’t go back up to the tower, Gabriel has clearly lost all patience and there’s no way Crowley can pass for Raphael now, not with the discoloration and the hissing. Moreover, he’s out from under their gaze and he’s _worried_ about Raphael. The archangel has never not been there when Aziraphale needed him before and this was… 

Well, Aziraphale might not think that he’s worthy of Raphael’s effort, but he’d had his word and that is more than enough to be concerned. 

“Sso glad my new bondmate has sssuch a way with wordsss,” the demon snarls. He throws himself back down on the ground and yelps, twisting about, clearly trying to find a spot that doesn’t hurt. 

Aziraphale sympathizes, his own aching neck has just twinged and he’s sure it's because of stress. 

They sit in silence (save the demon’s frustrated half words and curses) for a few minutes before the demon speaks again. 

“It’s gonna rain,” he says, the hiss finally gone entirely. He lifts one arm and points up at the dark clouds that have been gathering. “Shouldn’t be out in the rain.” 

Aziraphale shrugs. He’s already soaked through, what harm will a little more water do? Perhaps fresh rain will remove the stink of the moat from his suit. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s all fine for you.” The demon begins to struggle to his feet, wincing and gasping for breath the entire way. “But, when the rain’s bad enough here things get… weird. I’m not sticking around to find out if bloody Archangels traipsing about make it worse.” 

He starts to walk away, his gait faltering and stiff and his head bowed in pain, and Aziraphale hesitates for just long enough to feel a little tug in the center of his chest. 

He doesn’t want the demon to go off alone, hurt and angry as he is. He hates to think what might happen should one of the archangels run into him without Aziraphale there to protect him. It might not be a real Bond, but until they can separate he feels almost compelled to help. 

Aziraphale hurries to catch up with the demon. 

* * *

Footnotes

1. or perhaps he would say ‘yote’ or ‘Crowley was yeeten by the angel’. He really did enjoy the way adults twitched when he used different past tenses of ‘yeet’.↩


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It rains and Aziraphale makes a few realizations. Crowley is still having a Terrible, No Good Very Bad Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that the chapter count went up; Warlock scene in this chapter just felt weird. So, it's getting it's own chapter (with an additional Anathema and Newt scene for info about what's happening back at the ranch) <3
> 
> Thanks to [hapax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax) for the beta!!

There’s a peculiar grey-green tinge that overtakes the sky just before an especially bad squall. Crowley had learned just after he and Warlock moved to the island to keep a weather eye out in a way he’d never had to before. It always used to be easy simply to snap and protect himself from whatever the sky decided to throw at him, but the ease of those days has long since drained away with the rest of his waning strength.

He carries an umbrella now.

Of course, the umbrella doesn’t help when the storms set in and the Heavenmouth bleeds out into the mortal realm. It was Warlock who figured it out, only a few months after they arrived on the island; if Hell is fire then Heaven is water. Hellish influence carries best through heat[1] and Heavenly through chill[2]. So, when water sweeps across the sky of this place, it provides the shapeless divine with a direct path to Earth.

Lightning flashes ahead and Crowley flinches. He doesn’t have his umbrella, hadn’t thought he’d need it. His lips and eyes are already burning, the tips of his fingers numb. Everything else on him already hurts so badly, he really doesn’t want–

The sky breaks.

“Satan fucking damnit!” Crowley snaps out. They’re still too far away from any sort of cover.

He’s halfway out of his suit jacket when the rain suddenly stops hitting him. He stops walking and looks up, confused.

A great white wing arcs above him. It shines in the dim light that filters through the thick clouds, a white beacon that calls out to something aching and ancient in Crowley’s chest.

“Is the rain holy, as well?”

Crowley drags his eyes from the pearlescent feathers to the angel at his side. Aziraphale’s expression is open and wondering, his question clearly genuine, not a jab at the way Crowley’s entire being aches from the moat.

Crowley thinks about lying, but can’t bring himself to do it, not when the angel has offered him shelter. “No,” he mutters, pulling his jacket back on. “Just don’t like being wet.” He waits for the rain to hit him once more, waits for the angel to put his wing away now that he knows it’s just a stupid demon’s stupid dislike of the cold and not anything more dangerous.

Aziraphale does nothing more than stand there, becoming progressively more soaked himself, and hold his wing over Crowley.

Crowley opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to thank the angel, but before he can find the correct consonants the sky opens and the downpour ticks over from torrential to apocalyptic.

“I say!” the angel shouts. He looks like a drowned rat and suddenly Crowley is laughing, first a snort and then a chuckle and then he’s folded over, laughing so hard he can barely breathe because the angel just looks so affronted with his curls flattened to his head and his nice suit hanging from him in a sodden mess.

When he pulls himself together, Aziraphale is looking at him with a strange expression on his face. Crowley doesn’t bother to try and figure out what it means; he doesn’t look smite-y and that’s all that matters really.

“Come on!” He shouts over the rain, “This way!”

He starts off at a trot, the fastest his aching body can manage. The haunted loo isn’t far from here and while the roof has seen better days, it’s a far sight better than a single angel wing against the elements. Aziraphale follows him on a slight delay, angling his wing forward so Crowley is still covered[3].

The wind picks up just as the grey stones of the loo appear through the solid sheet of rain. Crowley can smell the way reality’s edges have gone wobbly and hopes that Warlock decided to spend the afternoon at home. Probably not, he thinks, the kid’s likely soaking wet and planning on getting a cold just to annoy Crowley.

The door to the loo sticks like it always does in a storm, the wood swelling with the damp. Crowley hisses at it and takes a step back, trying to wedge his feet down into the cracks in the ground to get better leverage, but before he can make a second attempt, Aziraphale leans forward and calmly yanks the door open.

Crowley stares.

That door is heavy, at least six inches of solid hardwood, and Crowley knows from experience that it’s nearly immovable when the weather is like this. And Aziraphale had just– as if it were nothing at all…

He swallows.

“Crowley?” The angel is looking at him now, head tilted to the side and eyes wide with what Crowley might call concern were it not for the fact that they were an angel and a demon and _concern_ was not a standard angelic response in his experience.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He steps into the loo and collapses in a pile of limbs on the closest mound of rubble, watching as Aziraphale picks his way inside. The angel turns his wings away from Crowley and shakes them, fluffing out the feathers and sending a shower of water across the far side of the loo. Then, he tucks them away and peers around the dimly lit space curiously.

“How… charming,” he says. A large chunk of slime mold peels away from the wall and falls to the ground with a wet _pap_. “Is this your home?”

Crowley blinks once. Then, again.

“Yesss,” he hisses, “Demons all live in abandoned grotty loos. Fuck off.”

Before the angel could say anything worse, Crowley stands up from the pile and stalks to the other side of the circular room, as far from him as he could get without venturing back out in the downpour.

* * *

Aziraphale watches the demon walk away and tries not to be too upset with himself. It wasn’t a ridiculous question, he tells himself, he _has_ heard what Hell looks like, after all. This seems like a step up from there and the demon is already strange in so many ways, it did not seem beyond the pale to consider that he might also live differently from the rest of his cohort.

“I-” He thinks better of speaking. Crowley has turned his back on Aziraphale and is jabbing crossly at the screen of a smartphone, brow drawn low and dark over his eyes.

Aziraphale sighs and turns away. If this isn’t Crowley’s home, then it won’t do any harm to poke around.

It’s a small building, with a large basin of some sort in the very center and the remains of what look like dozens of mirrors shattered all around. Someone has been experiencing some very poor luck indeed[4]. Across from the door there are two stalls that, when Aziraphale pushes lightly on the doors, appear to house a single toilet and urinal each.

Ah.

He supposes the demon’s indignation makes a bit of sense. It really is a loo, and not a particularly well-maintained one at that. Aziraphale blushes, embarrassed anew by his misstep. He looks over. Crowley is still seated where he’d thrown himself down.

Aziraphale makes his way carefully across the loose debris towards the demon. When he’s halfway there, Crowley snarls and pokes at his phone screen one more time before raising it to his ear.

Aziraphale can hear it ring. Once, twice. Three times. Then, it clicks to voicemail.

“Hiya, this is Warlock. If this is Crowley calling just text me, you dork. If it’s anyone else, how the fuck did you get my- No wait!” Then, Crowley’s own voice, sounding half-amused, half-exhausted. “Just leave a message, he’ll call you back. Probably. Unless you’re with Hell. Then, you can eat a big one.”

Beeeeeep.

“Fuck.” Crowley slips his phone into his pocket and leans forward, head in his hands.

“Is everything all right?”

The demon did look up. “Peachy,” he said without moving. “Just fuckin’ dandy.”

Aziraphale leans against the wall across from him. It is covered in mold and slime and would have ruined his suit if it wasn’t already a lost cause from the rain and moatwater.

“Are you… Well, I suppose it’s a bit silly to ask if you’re all right.”

Crowley snorts. It’s different from the way he’d snorted on the hilltop as the rain fell around them.

That time had been… different. More than Aziraphale would ever have expected from a demon, if he’s being honest with himself. Something charming and loose, something uninhibited, that calls to him.

This laugh isn’t like that. It’s cold and cruel, though the cruelty seems turned inward, somehow.

Then the demon looks up and meets Aziraphale’s eyes. Aziraphale tries to smile at him, tries to make himself look non-threatening and friendly[5].

“This is an… odd place.” Aziraphale observes after a moment of tense silence.

Crowley shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.” He looks around, taking it in. “We, er, I mean. I, uh, found it right after moving here. Never really thought about it being weird, just figured the humans didn’t want to squat on top of a hill.”

Aziraphale pulls a face at the image, remembering all to clearly the days when humans had just squatted on hilltops. “Quite.”

“Listen,” Crowley goes on. “I, uh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not sorry for snapping, but, well, I mean….”

Aziraphale smiles. “You’re not _not_ sorry?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Think nothing of it. I’m not sure I would have been so charitable in such pain.” He can see the raw red marks creeping out of Crowley’s rumpled collar.

Crowley grunts.

“I could, ah, help you out with that?” Aziraphale offers. Really, he should have offered as soon as they were out of the water, but he’s been overwhelmed and more than a little surprised at everything that has happened.

Crowley stares at him.

“I mean, you don’t have to say ‘yes’, of course.” Aziraphale rushes to say, “I would never do anything without your consent, I want to help you, not to hurt you or make you uncom–”

“Okay.”

“What?”

Crowley nods and holds out his left arm. “Okay, you can heal me.”

Aziraphale takes a single step forward and Crowley jerks back with a wince. Aziraphale freezes.

“My dear boy, what was that?”

Crowley hisses quietly under his breath. “Thought the rain would have taken care of it,” he says, “Course not, when’s my luck ever been that good.”

“Crowley?”

The demon stops rubbing his arm and looks up. He’s clearly exhausted. There are large bags under his eyes and, now that he’s looking for it, Aziraphale can see the way his hands shake.

“You’re still covered in Holy Water. It hurts.”

“But I didn’t touch you.”

Crowley shrugs. “Told you, things get weird when it rains.”

Aziraphale decides that he really is not a fan of this island.

“Does it hurt when I’m over here?” He takes a step back, retreating to the wall.

Crowley shakes his head. “Nah, it’s fine. Nothing more than usual when you’re there. I think you could probably be right next to me and it would be fine. You reached out to touch then though.”

That makes no sense at all, but Aziraphale hasn’t understood anything that happened since the rain began, so he shrugs his confusion away and accepts Crowley’s expertise.

“Would it help if I got rid of the holy water?” He mimes snapping.

Crowley shakes his head. “Not like that. The rain should have taken care of it but it didn’t. You could dry it all up but it would likely still hurt.” He sighs and stands. “Rain’s letting off. I need to get back, but you can come with me. I’ve got some extra clothes and that might be enough to do it.”

Borrowing a demon’s clothes. Raphael is going to laugh himself silly when Aziraphale tells him about all this.

Outside the loo the rain has subsided, falling back to nothing more than a light drizzle. Crowley sets off in that strange, limping jog again, clearly eager to be wherever it is they’re going. Aziraphale follows as fast as he’s able, uncomfortable with how exposed he feels out on top of the hills. He’s sure that Anathema and Newt are doing an admirable job of distracting Gabriel and the rest, but Raphael’s continued absence gnaws at him.

After only a few minutes they reach the edge of the windswept hills, the grasses beneath their feet turning to stone as a path sprouts up. Crowley leads them down this path, following its curves and twists and ignoring all the branching side paths until it spits them out in a little dell nestled between three larger hills. There’s a pale stone cottage with a grass covered roof in the center. A large vegetable garden fills the rest of the space, the brightly colored gourds and leaves shocking after the heather greys and creams of the hills.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and stumbles to a stop. “Oh!” he says, quite without meaning to. His hand has risen to his chest in surprise.

“What?” Crowley stops as well, looking around suspiciously.

“Oh, can’t you feel it?”

“Obviously not, since I’m asking.”

Aziraphale gives him a dry look. “Love,” he explains. “This place feels loved.”

Crowley flushes, his pale skin turning bright red in the space of a single heartbeat and Aziraphale’s own breath catches in his chest.

“No,” Crowley says, “I can’t feel that.”

The warm feeling in Aziraphale’s chest twists and fades. Right. Demons can’t feel love. He knows that fact. It shouldn’t be as disappointing as it is.

“Ah, my apologies,” Aziraphale says with an awkward smile.

Crowley waves his words away and starts towards the cottage again. He opens the back door and slips inside without bothering to knock, but Aziraphale hesitates outside.

“Do you know the owners?” he asks, not wanting to trespass if it can be avoided.

Crowley pauses halfway through taking off his shiny dress shoes.

“Yeah,” he says, “You could say that.”

Well, that is unnecessarily cryptic. A breeze whips through the dell and catches the open door, yanking it from Aziraphale’s hand so it slams against the wall.

“Satan’s sake,” Crowley snaps. “It’s mine. Just get inside will you?”

Aziraphale steps in and closes the door and then stops, unsure of where he should go or what he’s meant to be doing now. In the demon’s house. In what appears to be his kitchen.

“Stay there,” Crowley says. He scrubs one hand through his short hair, leaving the damp strands charmingly askew. “I’ll grab a towel. Don’t want you dripping holy water all over the place.”

“No, of course not.” Aziraphale watches him go and then, as soon as he’s out of sight, turns to examining his surroundings.

If he hadn’t just been told, Aziraphale never would have said a demon had even visited this place, much less that one lived here. The pervasive feeling of love is, if anything, stronger inside than it had been outside. The kitchen is tiny, fitting the size of the cottage, with a single narrow countertop and stove. There is a small table shoved against the wall by the door with two rickety chairs. The fridge is a pale mint color and appears to be covered by small, brightly colored bits of paper with dark, spiky handwriting on them. There are two glasses in the sink.

Slowly it dawns on Aziraphale that Crowley does not live here alone.

The shoes lined up neatly by the door are brightly colored and mud-spattered.

Despite his many years on Earth, Aziraphale has not had call to spend much time around children. They usually aren’t the ones in need of redirecting back onto God’s path, after all. But, since the Apocalypse failed to happen, he and Raphael have found themselves quite enjoying the time they could steal with the AntiChrist and his friends[6]. The children are clever and funny and they ask questions that Aziraphale never tires of answering and they would much rather run around outside than grub through his books as he’s always feared children might want to do.

The shoes mere inches from Aziraphale's own look very much like Adam's.

Not only does Crowley not live alone, there is a child here.

Aziraphale feels queasy.

* * *

Footnotes

1. Through the press of a warm hand against heated, heaving ribs, through blazing words, through the burn of alcohol.↩

2. Divinity found in the cool balm of a damp rag against fevered skin or the crisp relief of water after a drought↩

3. Something besides the holy water burns _aches_ at that realization.↩

4. He doesn’t linger on that thought, sure that would only be inviting dramatic irony given his own luck these last few months.↩

5. He’s always prided himself on looking non-threatening. It’s a point of contention between himself and Gabriel on his quarterly evaluations.↩

6. In particular, Raphael was fond of Pepper and the two of them often disappeared for hours while Raphael helped her figure out how to build bigger and better sculptures out of the fallen branches in Hogback Wood.↩


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for mild body horror/insects at the beginning (in reference to Hastur's true form), nothing past the level of the show I don't think

_Warlock’s parents are frozen. He’s not sure if they’re breathing. It feels as if the entire world has frozen around him. Nanny said sometimes that could happen if you were scared enough, she said it was something that he’ll grow into, that his powers were beyond even hers._

_She said a lot of things like that._

_But he doesn’t think he’s using any powers at all. He doesn’t think he’s ever used any, no matter what Nanny said._

_The horrible, smelly man in front of him leans in close and Warlock bites his lower lip, refusing to take a step back. Nanny said the most important thing was not showing that you were afraid. She said he’d have armies and that they’d follow his word, but that there would also be those who challenged him. She’d promised to fight them for him, she’d said that she’d be his first and fiercest defender._

_She isn’t here._

_But Warlock is and his parents are and this not-a-man is and Warlock knows he needs to win this first challenge on his own._

_“Step back,” he says quietly._

_The man-thing snarls, maggots wriggling out from between his teeth._

_Nanny said to take anything negative he felt and twist it to a strength. He lets his disgust and the churning in his stomach fuel the curl of his lip._

_“I’m your boss’s kid.” Warlock’s voice wants to tremble, but he refuses to allow it. When he was seven Nanny took him up in the Eye and, in a bubble all to themselves, she’d held Warlock close and asked him to tell her stories until he could talk steadily past his fear of heights._

_“You will move back.” He clenches his fists at his side._

_Then the man-thing folds in on itself, the world twisting around it. It’s like the crack in Warlock’s bedroom ceiling, only it smells like the compost pile and sour milk and it makes him dizzy. He tastes blood when the hole in the fabric of the world takes a step towards him, leaving piles of maggots roiling over each other in its wake._

_Warlock’s mother shrieks, his father is yelling, and Warlock suddenly realizes that maybe Nanny had lied to him._

_Maybe he’s just a kid._

* * *

It’s not his most common nightmare, but it’s up there[1]. It’s a regular reminder that angels and demons are not _really_ as they appear.

So, why had Raphael chosen to look like Crowley?

He runs his fingers down the side of the angel’s face in his sketchbook. Not just _like_ Crowley, exactly the same. He’d grown up with a pair of twins, the kids of the Ambassador from Peru, and even they hadn’t looked so similar to each other.

“The _fuck_ is he doing down here?” Warlock’s head whips up, an instinctive jolt of fear running through him at the American accent. It isn’t his father, Thaddeus doesn’t remember him, Crowley had made sure of it. But, he still scrambles up and darts back into the cave, pulling the sheet of vines down and obscuring the opening as much as possible.

“What-”

“Shut up,” Warlock hisses.

“Now, that’s not very poli-”

“If you ever want me to let you out, you’ll shut up!” The angel must see how serious he is, because he makes a little motion like he’s locking his mouth closed.

“No, I don’t know why he’d come down here, Michael.” The American voice is closer now. It’s deep and annoyed and Warlock can’t help but curl in around himself. It’s not his father, it’s _not._

“Well, if I knew, I wouldn’t be mucking around here,” the voice goes on, “I just want to prove this shit’s fake so we can kill the Principality and be done with it. Get the Apocalypse back on track.”

Even through the thick binding, Warlock can feel the way the angel suddenly tenses, his entire being focused on what the American is saying.

“No, no, I know we can’t just restart things. The fucking AntiChrist is poisoned against us. Damn Aziraphale.”

The anger is a physical force now, shoving away even Warlock’s own fear.

Warlock doesn’t know who’s talking but he’s sure that if they’re informed enough to know about the Apocalypse, then they’re going to feel it if the angel doesn’t stop.

“Hey,” he hisses. Nothing. “Hey, you need to chill.”

He can see the stone beneath the angel starting to turn to sand, pulverised by the forces whipping around behind the binding.

“Shit, there’s nothing here.” The American says. “Yeah, yeah. I know you told me. I’ll be back up there soon. Have you found Aziraphale yet?”

Then he’s gone.

“Who was that?” he asks when it seems like the angel has got control of himself again.

“Archangel Gabriel.”

Oh, Warlock is so grounded. He can already picture Crowley’s face[2].

“Ah,” he says faintly, “And why didn’t you yell? You’re on the same side, right?”

Raphael shakes his head. “We’re not. I helped a friend of mine stop the apocalypse and the other Archangels aren’t happy about that. They can’t punish me, but they can hurt my friend.” His mouth twists unhappily to the side. “I’m supposed to be marrying him right now, it was a stupid idea. Mine of course.”

Warlock twists around and pulls his legs up, hugging them close to his chest.

“You love your friend?”

Raphael laughs.

“I do, but not like that.”

“But you’re marrying him? Marriage is about love, that’s what Crowley told me.” He leaves out the other part, that Crowley had told him marriage was _meant_ to be about love but it often was about so many other things. Crowley hated that. He’d told Warlock about the first Marriage, about how happy Adam and Eve had been and how Crowley hated seeing people twist it into something to make people miserable.

“Crowley sounds like a smart demon,” Raphael says and Warlock nods rapidly. “Yes, marriage is supposed to be about love. I was very stupid and did a dumb thing. I told my siblings that Aziraphale and I were in love and planned to marry. They were planning to kill him, but they’d never dare if he was my husband.”

“But, what if one of you wants to marry someone else? What if you fall in love?”

Raphael looks crushingly sad. “I won’t, I don’t love like that. Aziraphale is my best friend and that’s all I want or need. But, that’s why it was a stupid thing. He’s not like me, he does want love like you’re talking about, and I’ve trapped him.”

Warlock is quiet for a bit, thinking about Raphael’s words.

“You feel bad?” he finally asks.

Raphael nods. “Terrible. I was so afraid for him, I never asked what he wanted and I took something from him. It’s a miracle that he’s forgiven me.”

“That’s not fair,” Warlock whispers. “They wanted to kill Crowley too, you know. I saved him and he can’t go back to Hell, but he’s still free. You shouldn’t have to marry someone you don’t love and he shouldn’t have to die because he didn’t want to hurt people.”

Raphael blinks at him. “Your demon is on the run from Hell for not wanting to hurt people?”

Warlock shrugs. “Well, yeah. He spent my whole life training me to avoid starting the Apocalypse. Wrong kid, but he still fucked up a lot of Hell’s plans.”

“What?”

Raphael is standing now, that strange crushing feeling once again surrounding Warlock.

“Tell me everything. Now.”

* * *

The knife is sharp, very sharp. Newt knows because a few months ago he asked Anathema if there was some way he could help her and promptly been set to learning the contents of massive tomes that called herbs he’d grown up eating names he’d never heard before and described the proper way to sharpen a knife to ensure its essence was aligned in the most effective way[3]. He finished the book in a week and then read it twice more, just to be sure. Each time it felt like something settled a little deeper in his mind and while he still doesn’t quite _get_ it the way she does, he can help her pick herbs and prepare them and sharpen knives for storage without creating some small bug that will ruin the output of her spells later.

He likes helping and he especially likes sharpening the knives. It’s soothing– satisfying to see such a concrete outcome from his actions. Better, Anathema always smiles at him after, the soft smile that she’s often too embarrassed to use in public; a tiny quirk at the left corner of her mouth and her eyes crinkled just so. Newt thinks that he might move Heaven itself for that smile.

So, he knows that the knife in Anathema’s hand is sharp. He watches as she draws it up the small chunk of wood, carefully shaving away pieces so thin he can see light through them. Woodcarving is a witch thing, but it’s also an Anathema thing and the longer they’re together the more Newt learns about the distinction between those two groups.

The Witch carves in straight lines, precise recreations of ancient runes and depictions of spirits that Newt struggles to remember the names of, for all that he can recognize their poses as protective and their eyes as fierce.

Anathema tends towards smaller things, natural things; hedgehogs and curled up fawns and, once, Dog, his tail still but filled with life all the same. Newt likes Anathema’s carving more than the Witch’s, though he’s also learned not to say that.

Now, Newt feels a curious mix of horror and admiration as Anathema turns the knife and angles the tip in between two darker patches of grain, carving out a thin wedge. Even from across the large table he can see the way the stern face now seems somehow smug as well. It’s a woman, he thinks, with hair as long as she is tall and her chin uplifted towards the harsh lines of sunlight that fall on her from above. She is naked, and there’s something just to the left of human about her form, something ancient and wrong in ways Newt can’t quite put into words.

Anathema’s fingers trace across the wood. She hums, low and melodic, and Newt spots the way her eyes dart to the third person at their table and away again, almost too fast to catch if you aren’t looking for it.

The Archangel Michael is looking.

When Anathema looks at her, Michael’s lips purse; and when she looks away, they curl into a sneer.

Newt hasn’t learned all of the wards yet, but he knows this one, knows what Anathema is simultaneously threatening and promising, and he’s so filled with a heady combination of love and terror that he fears he might pass out.

“Why are you here?” Michael is the first to speak. “You should not remember that day. No human should.”

Anathema shrugs. She digs the knife in again and the wood squeaks a bit in protest.

Newt has never been able to abide silence; when Anathema doesn’t speak the words tumble from his mouth. “Aziraphale says that we were too close,” he says. Anathema glances at him, but doesn’t seem displeased, so he goes on. “To it all. Other people can forget the fires and the fish and all of it because that’s all they saw, like a half-remembered dream. But, things wouldn’t have gone the way they did without us[4].”

Michael takes a deep breath through her nose. She nods once.

“Yes,” she finally says. “We’re aware of your… choices.”

She says ‘choices’ like it’s a dirty word and Newt supposes it might be. He doesn’t think that the Archangels are quite over Eve deciding to eat the apple, something Aziraphale has been very firm in calling a Choice.

He shrugs, forcing back the instinct to grovel before her. It’s easier now than before. The first time Aziraphale and Raphael showed up at their cottage in Tadfield after everything settled, Newt’s knees had wobbled so badly he’d needed help to find a seat.

“So, we remember.” A sudden thought occurs to him and he goes on, slower than before as he carefully finds the right words. “I suppose that God let us remember because She knows that you lot aren’t unbiased. You think we ruined something, both of you.” He means Heaven and Hell, though it applies to Gabriel and Michael as well. “And you wouldn’t remember our choices accurately because of that. But, we weren’t thinking about ruining anything or thwarting anyone, I didn’t even properly know that it was all a biblical sort of affair until after it was over.”

Michael is very pale. Anathema’s knife has stopped moving, though it still rests upon the wood.

“We, no I, I don’t want to speak for anyone else. I just wanted to wake up the next day. I’d been fired from my job, you see, and didn’t really have much going for me. I didn’t think witches were real or anything, I just needed the pay. And then the world was falling apart and everything I’d thought was real and not real was all mixed up and all I could think was that if those bombs went off then I wouldn’t get to find out what waking up in the morning next to Anathema felt like. I wouldn’t get to tease my mum for always missing the last clue on the Sunday crossword.” He shrugs again. “I wasn’t trying to ruin anything at all. I just wanted to wake up the next day.”

Anathema’s smile is brilliant, her teeth white and her eyes shining.

She sets the knife down and leans forward, grasping his hand so tightly his bones creak.

“Michael,” she says, catching the archangel’s eye, “Can I ask you a question?”

* * *

1. His most common nightmare is more of a category; waking up in the morning and going to annoy Crowley only to find that he won’t wake. Crowley wakes but won’t stop screaming. Crowley vanishes before his eyes, summoned by someone and Warlock can’t find him. Crowley trying to protect him and failing and Warlock not being fast enough to save him, the holy water destroying him before he can blink. When he wakes from those, he usually crawls into Crowley’s bed and presses his head to the demon’s chest, taking comfort in the slow beat of his heart and the gentle circles Crowley draws on his back.↩

2. He won’t even argue. He really wants to hug Crowley and he’ll happily take being grounded if he can have that first.↩

3. He’d thought that ‘essence’ was the old-timey word for molecules, before people had a concept of that, but when he’d mentioned that to Anathema she’d laughed until she cried, so he supposes knives have essences the same way people have auras. He can’t see them, but he trusts what she Sees.↩

4. It’s an idea he’s worked hard to internalize. They did this. Helped to save the world, helped to somehow change the plans of _Heaven_ and _Hell._ Sometimes it’s all too much and he wishes he was back in the dreary grey office from which he was last fired. Most times he’s just grateful Anathema never minds going over things one more time, helping him put it all into some kind of order of operations he can deal with.↩


End file.
